


The Case of the Curious Letters

by Bluestpaw



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: ALL OF IT, Adventure, Detective Agency, Detectives, F/M, Fluff, I don't know why all of it is capitalized, Intrigue, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, also, not just the romance part, that just happened, there's more than one case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26948281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestpaw/pseuds/Bluestpaw
Summary: "A story is best told from the begining and the first thing you should know about me is that I am called "Enola Holmes". "Holmes" like the famous detective "Sherlock Holmes", though I can assure you that I am my own person in every right.The second thing you should know is that I am London's very own lady detective."Making a living in London, staying hidden from her brothers and trying to figure out her mother, Enola Holmes has more than enough on her hands. Luckily, every case has a solution. And it certainly is not disadvantageous to have a certain nincompoop, also known as Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, on her side either.Case I: The unrobbed woman. Following a message from her mother, Enola meets a woman claiming her room to have been broken into - however, nothing was stolen.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Edith Grayson, Enola Holmes & Eudoria Vernet Holmes, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 81
Kudos: 131





	1. The unrobbed woman; File I: Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third, ongoing story that I am currently writing. Why am I doing this to me? I don’t know. Regardless, should any chapter ever go over the threshold of 4k words, you’re allowed to publically shame me in the comments (including for this one).
> 
> This is the first story I'm writing for this fandom and I’m writing thitis after having watched the Netflix adaption of the original book (hoping to bridge the time between now and the inevitable spin-off series they will make). I am trying to adapt the movie’s tone and narration, however it is quiet different from my usual style, so forgive me should anything not match.
> 
> Lastly, English is not my first language. Should you find any mistakes, you may, once again, publically shame me in the comments for that.
> 
> Enjoy ^^ (and see you at the end)

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter One

-

_6 th of August 1884_

_Case: The unrobbed woman  
File I: Alone_

* * *

A question often asked when telling a story is “Where to begin?”. Now, I am by no means a famed writer or scholar, and yet I believe that every story is best told forwards, rather than backwards. Hence, I shall start right there– at the beginning.

The first thing you should know about me is that my name is “Enola". "Enola Holmes” to be more precise. I admit, it is quite the odd name (though not as odd as many another), but my mother insisted on it. Firmly. For you see, “Enola” spelled backwards says “Alone” and my mother has always been rather fond of word play.

The second thing you should know about me is that, after solving my first case, the case of the Missing Marques, I have realized that being alone does not equal being lonely. Knowing this has...solved many a question I have had all my life, as for being called “Alone”, well – it isn’t the most flattering of meanings, don’t you agree? But my mother has always had only the best of intentions and I am convinced that she has merely wanted to teach me this lesson specifically.

My mother always has had her own way of going about things.

For you see, I may not live close to Edith Grayson, but I talk to her occasionally. I may hardly ever see Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, but his letters do bring me joy.

But fear not! I made him swear not to tell my address to either of my brothers – or anyone else for that matter! And anyway, the place I make him sent them to varies from each letter to another. I simply cannot allow myself to be sloppy lest my brothers – well, Sherlock mostly – may find me!

Speaking of my brothers, I may not speak to (or write. Or see) them at all, but I am convinced, should I ever be in a place of high need, my brothers – well, Sherlock again – would help me out. And anyway, I do not require my brother’s assistance, as, as I aforementioned, my name is “Enola”.

Alone.

The last thing you should know about me, is that I’m currently learning how to ride a bicycle.

“OY! Watch it, miss!”, a fruit seller yells after me as I make my way through the busy streets of London. I almost hit his cart before swaying to the right, scattering a group of streetworkers. London really is too busy to learn how to properly ride a bike, but then again, I am nothing if not persistent.

Quickly, I shout “My apologies!” over my shoulder, but do not pay any more attention to the fruit seller’s squabbling. I am on a mission after all, and nothing will keep me from it. Phase one of today’s scheme has already been properly conducted – I paid a girl five pounds for switching clothes with me, after we both entered Edith’s. You see, I have it on good authority that something of importance will happen at Edith’s dojo today. I may not have been informed of what – but I know it _will._

My informant is rather trustworthy.

Phase Two of my plan is taking me a bit longer – getting back to Edith’s, after leading any possible pursuer astray.

“OY!”, another man yells - this time, it is a newsman.

London really _is_ too busy, isn't it?

.o.O.o.

“Morning”, I greet the waitress as I enter the tea rooms Edith uses as a front for her dojo. I have been told the beverages here are excellent, but I have yet to try them, hardly ever finding the time to sit down at one of the tables. I wouldn’t want to anyway. My mother used to say that those tearooms are devil incarnate. “Enola”, she’d tell me:”A tearoom is a place where ones gathers to discuss nothing of importance. Do try to avoid them if you wish to be more than a pretty flower.”

I have headed that advice ever since.

Mayhaps that is why Edith chose a tearoom as a front.

Anyway. I already know my way around these parts – having visited regularly to gather news about my mother, that I have yet to receive – I suppose Edith is not being entirely honest with what she knows or doesn’t – and quickly make my way up the stairs, politely nodding to the other patrons of the establishment. Not a single one of them pays any mind to the regular thumps drifting down from the upper levels and I am not surprised that most conversations centre around the latest suffragette protests.

Perhaps my mother has been a bit off when describing tearooms.

The stairs’ creaking is almost comforting by now and I exhale soundly after making it upstairs. My brother’s would not be allowed back here and if they should be spotted downstairs, I know my way across the rooftops. Mother used to train me in climbing and I can’t help but wonder, whether she may have envisioned me scaling London’s walls at some point.

I am reminded of Sherlock telling me he was forced to take calligraphy classes when he was younger and what a useful skill it is to have, now that he is older and an outstanding detective. Even my short time at Miss Harrison’s finishing school for girls has come in handy – or will. I may have to disguise myself as a proper lady again eventually.

Preparation is key, my mother used to say.

I am greeted by Edith herself, a soft smile gracing her features as she welcomes me into her dojo, returning from the back. I cannot help but wonder what was so important for her to leave her lessons – but it is not my place to ask. I have learned my lesson the first time I came and while I have finally mastered the “Corkscrew”, I have no intention of taking on the jiu-jitsu master herself.

“Enola Holmes! What a surprise for you to be here!”, Edith says, quickly leading me into the back. She already knows I am not here to train – and what we discuss is more often than not a private matter.

“Did something happen? You rarely ever visit twice in a row.”

I assume you may be confused by this, for Edith is a very good friend of mine, but I do have reasons for my sporadic visits.

Ever since I have found Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, I have every reason to believe that not only is Mycroft – and by extent Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard – looking for me, but rather Sherlock – the world-famous detective who is renowned for solving every task he has ever taken on.

I may only be 16 and I may have lived my entire life on the countryside, but I am convinced he won’t solve this one. And most definitely not today. I already successfully distracted him from Edith’s by deploying that other girl in my clothes as a decoy after all. I am now dressed in an entirely new set of clothes – a maid’s. I have never disguised myself as one before and I have every reason to assume I will not be recognized by anyone. By anyone who doesn’t know me, that is, which is a scarily low number of people – my mother, Edith, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether and maybe our housekeeper, Mrs. Lane.

Should Sherlock be able to see through my disguise regardless – which I doubt, as he rarely ever recognizes me at all – I have made use of another scheme to hide any tracks I might leave behind: I only ever visit Edith’s dojo at random. In fact, I roll dice to determine when I will. As dice are not influenced by me whatsoever – other than the angle and force with which I throw them and I am positive, not even a detective as genius as Sherlock Holmes would ever be able to deduce _that_ information – rolling dice is the most random way to determine the date of my visits. If there is no code at all, no secret message can be found out either.

But enough of that.

“It is my mother!”, I quickly say, answering Edith's question and unable to mask my voice's eagerness:”She sent me a notice – through the “Magazine of Modern Womanhood” - and she told me I had to be here today!”

That is not entirely correct. In fact, my mother simply wrote “Dlm atn irpih bsey nhevyucalmuut”. Which, of course, is no message at all, however if you just rearrange the letters a little, the message will read “Ivy and Blue Tulip, Chrysanthemum.” which, evidently, still doesn’t make sense at all. Yet. my mother has always had a penchant for codes and this is no different. “Chrysanthemum” is what we call each other and both “Ivy” and “Blue Tulip” refers to a friend – one who is loyal and whom you share history with.

It was obvious she was referring to Edith.

“Your mother? I haven’t heard anything from your mother lately...” - I don’t believe her. She just doesn’t want me to _know_ and it is infuriating - “...I am surprised you are asking for her at all. I thought you might have found out about a letter that was send to me for you?”

I halt my thoughts, processing what Edith tells me before realizing - I forgot. I told Tewkesbury to send his next letter here. I was planning on picking it up during my next _scheduled_ visit.

“Oh, he has written back already?”, I reply, stepping closer, a bit too hastily maybe. Because Edith’s mouth quirks up into a smirk and she raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

I have given myself away, have I not?

“”He”? Is it that “useless boy” you supposedly got rid of?”

Instead of answering Edith - she knows the answer regardless anyway and I will _not_ give her the satisfaction of saying it out loud, I snatch the letter from her waiting hands, moving to sutff it into my – my bag.

It is gone.

I must have handed it the girl I sent away earlier. That is a pity. I would, of course, prefer to read the letter right now, but I will not do so with Edith in the same room as I am. She is devious, as I have experienced myself, and would not put it beneath her to try and spy for my mother.

I am about to shove the letter down my corset – they do come in handy at times – but Edith’s smirk simply widens.

“I will leave you to it. My students are waiting.”

And up she goes, leaving the room.

I suppose that works too.

Hastily, I unfold the letter, sitting down at the small desk situated just next to me.

> _Clove_ _Brudrock_ _,_
> 
> _I thank you for your latest letter – it has amused me greatly hearing about the tale of the corrupt roast thief – did I not tell you it must have been an animal? – and I wish you’d have more tales to tell about Misses Grenwod’s vanishing dinners. Regardless, I am glad you solved this latest mystery. It must have been your fourth case, if I am not mistaken._

You may not know, but Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether is lying. This was, in fact, my _fifth_ case, but he refuses to view his own as a case. For reasons unbeknownst to me. Not to mention that I myself do not view any of these mysteries as cases - seeing how they have been solved within a day's time, at most.

> _However, I share your sentiment to hope for a more exciting case in the future. My own life has become rather boring – my mother is keeping me busy with studies and my uncle insists on teaching me fighting._ _I have yet to have a proper talk with my grandmother – at the very least she is not violating the house arrest she has been put under._
> 
> _I hope you will visit again soon, therewith I can show you the estate in a different light. I assume having visited only twice, once as detective and once under less than favourable circumstances,_ _may have cast a shadow on the estate's image a_ _nd_ _I wish for nothing more fervently than for you to come by the manor as a_ friend _instead.  
> _

I will deny any accusations saying that I blushed at the words, or, heaven forbids, my heartbeat sped up.

> _I_ _could_ _show you the gardens and the woods and we can speak in person,_ _instead of writing. I am sure that any tale told is more exciting than one read –_ _especially if it just so happens to be told by you._
> 
> _I wish you the very best and may we soon meet again.  
>   
> _ _Sincerely_
> 
> _Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether_
> 
> _P_ _S: Please write back quickly. Your letters brighten my day whenever I am lucky enough to receive one. I cannot wait to hear the retelling of your next case and wish I could be there in person._

I smile stupidly wide at his words and silently add a “So do yours” in my mind, before realizing what I am doing and dropping the letter like a piece of hot coal. Entertaining any idea of visiting the Viscount is risking my hotly fought for freedom. I will not endanger my own person just to visit a friend. Even if I wish I could.

Regretfully, I have learned to like that nincompoop during his absence and I have learned to miss him even more.

You may not remember, but we parted on the day of the vote regarding the “Representation of the People Act” and have yet to see each other since. A while ago I sent him a letter, telling him to write an answer and sent it to 52 Hindstreet. Obviously, I didn’t use my real name – doing so would have been rather foolish – instead choosing to go by the name “Clover Duckrob”. I wanted to call myself “Clove Brudrock” at first, - I told him that much a few letters ago, hence the way he addressed me - however, – as you can probably imagine – I was unsure whether Tewkesbury would find the secret message. You see, both “Clover Duckrob” and “Clove Brudrock” can be rearranged to form “Clover” and “Burdock”, the first two plants he named after we had jumped off the train.

It has been four months since the first letter was sent back by him.

Regardless. Entertaining such thoughts is foolish and I am _not_ foolish.

I am about to pick up the letter again and to put it away, but then something catches my eye.

The closed door.

You see, Edith has rarely ever left me alone in this room. In fact, the first and only time she ever did was when I first came to her and ever since that, I have only ever been allowed back here under surveillance - even if it is masked with pleasant conversations.

But Edith has yet to return. And I am _convinced_ my mother wished for me to be here. Maybe Edith is hiding something, maybe she misunderstood my mother and I am allowed to know more than she thinks, maybe...And next thing I know, I’m searching through the secretary.

I know I shouldn’t. My mother has always insisted of keeping private things private, but I am a detective and I simply cannot resist the call of finding a new lead. Quickly, I open the first closet door, finding myself a box with pieces of paper in it. They seem to be irrelevant – information about orders of tea and sugar and such – but I try to commit the details to memory anyway. God knows it might be another code – one I do not have any time to discern just yet.

I close the door and my eyes travel up, looking at the drawer, locked, but the key still stuck. I smile – Edith is most likely keeping anything important in there – what an oversight of her to simply forget to lock the drawer, or, mayhaps, I interrupted her. I open the drawer, inching it out piece by piece and...

“That is quite enough, young lady.”

I slam the drawer shut with too much force as I shoot up straight, the sound resounding from the walls.

Edith has returned, her eyes faltered and her lips pressed into a thin line. In fact, Edith has not just returned, she just caught me, red-handed, going through her private things. I lower my gaze in shame. I shouldn’t have done it, I _know_ , but I could _swear_ I spotted a letter with a dragon symbol on it, not unlike the one I spotted on several explosives, just in that drawer...

I’d rather not think what they were meant for.

“I assume you have finished reading that letter of yours?”, Edith asks, her voice harsh and angry. I nod, waiting a second before quickly grabbing Tewkesbury’s letter from the table I had left it on – if I were to forget it, Edith is sure to read it.

“Very well. I do not know whatever message your mother has left for you here – I don’t have it. Perhaps you misunderstood her. Whatever the case is, I suggest you _leave_.”

Again, I nod, following Edith out of the room and down the stairs like a scolded puppy, not daring to talk back. Perchance, had I not been caught going through Edith's belongings, I would have been able to convince her of the urgency of the matter – my mother wouldn’t communicate with me unless there is something of importance going on – but with Edith mad and me having nothing but a four word message to go off on, that hope has been crushed, wholeheartedly.

Edith escorts me all the way down the stairs until the very end where she stays, arms crossed across her chest. I can feel her eyes burn into my neck and I do not like it one bit. Edith is one of my few friends and I did not wish to offend her – though I should have expected it.

I did go through her things, after all.

I make my way through the busy tearoom, trying to swallow my disappointment. Did I misunderstand my mother, did I read it wrong? Was it, perhaps, not my mother’s doing at all? I frown as I try to make sense of the situation and -

“Enola Holmes?”, a voice calls out to me and I freeze. It is a woman’s voice, so I am not at all worried my brothers might have caught on to me. No, I freeze for an entirely different reason, as I do not know this voice, however _she_ has been looking for me!

Perhaps my mother had not wanted me to talk to Edith and had merely wanted for me to visit her. Surely, this encounter cannot be coincidence!

“Enola Holmes? Are you, by any chance, Enola Holmes?”

I turn around, glancing at Edith who is silently watching me. Surely, she will not kick me out for answering the call of my name, right?

The woman in front of me is of petite statue and is wearing an expensive silk-dress with elaborate jewellery. It is enough to tell me she is a woman of status and immense wealth – how she may have gotten to know my mother is a mystery to me. She is, however, reading “Essays on the Pursuits of Woman” by Frances Power Cobbe.

Maybe it isn’t as much of a mystery than I thought.

“Yes, I am. Is there anything I may help you with?”, I ask, trying not to sound too curious. She looks somewhat displaced within the tearoom, though I do not know why. Still, her person stands out in a way it shouldn’t and I am sure that I have found my lead.

At this, I might have to diverge: When I was younger, I once lost my favourite book. I had had a hunch from the start that my mother might have taken it. I looked for it all day and, as it turned out, my mother had _indeed_ taken it. “Enola”, she had said:”You are an observing girl. If you ever have a hunch – follow it. It might just lead you down the right path.” I have followed her advice ever since.

That woman doesn’t belong here and was sent by my mother.

“I am so glad you have come today! I was concerned I might have to wait, once, twice, thrice or longer to find you!”

I shift uncomfortably. I suppose me staying hidden _is_ keeping customers away from me – but it keeps my brothers away as well and hunting for hungry stray dogs is more fun than a finishing school for girls of Mycroft’s choosing.

I wonder whether she may not still be a spy but disregard that notion quickly. Sherlock doesn’t work with other people and Mycroft would most certainly never ask a woman for help.

“I was told to come here today, by an...” - how much should I tell her? - “...acquaintance of mine. However, I was not informed as to why. Could you, perhaps, fill me in, Mi...” I glance at her finger. “...sses..?”

“Misses Hughesbury. Ada Hughesbury”, she answers, smiling politely, before a frown makes its way onto her features and she continues:”It is...”

Misses Hughesbury halts her words and I feel myself growing impatient. But I do not interrupt her for she has evidently been sent by my mother. My mother has never sent me a single message and I cannot allow myself to let any loose ends hang.

“My room was broken into. But no one believes me because nothing was stolen!”

The woman get closer to me, grabbing my hands with hers and staring at me from big, blue eyes.

“My husband says I’m being paranoid, but I _know_ someone was there. My files were all disordered. I would never leave it like that – besides, the locker I store my correspondence in was open – and I lock it! Always!”

She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself and I listen silently.

“I went to the police nonetheless – I am my _own_ woman after all – but they did not take me seriously either and Floyd – my husband – got mad and forbid from reporting the crime again.”

I slowly untangle my hand from hers and step back, eyeing the woman in front of me. She _seems_ perfectly sane to me – panicked and scared, but sane nonetheless.

“Someone broke into your room, not stealing anything and your husband, and by extent the police, believe you have gone mad?”

“Precisely. I was told by a friend of mine that there is a lady detective somewhere in London going by the name “Enola Holmes” and that I’d be able to find you here.” And then she smiled her perfectly polite little smile again and adds:”Is it true you are sister to the famous _Sherlock_ Holmes.”

“Yes?”, I respond, unsure how to feel.

You see, when I was younger, I used to practice my introduction in front of the mirror all the time. And it was the most _ridiculous_ thing I have ever done. “Greetings. My name is Enola Holmes”, I’d say, making a silly little courtesy:”Sister to _Sherlock_ Holmes.” I used to collect paper clippings, too, anything I could find detailing his various cases. I stored them under my bed and I am sure, if I were to return to my families estate, I’d still find the book neatly tucked away in between other stuffy belongs.

I was the proudest sister one could have been. And yet, and yet, the comparison makes all of it feel silly and – and hollow.

“Oh splendid! I am sure you will be able to help me!”

Oh. I forgot. She is a possible client. I should probably answer her, shouldn't I?

“I...will do my best. I assume you’ll want me to find whoever broke into your room and find out why they did so?”

“Yes!”, she exclaims, clapping her hands together and I catch a glimpse of her finely manicured nails:“Exactly! I can barely get a proper night’s rest, wondering whether I missed or overlooked something! It’d help me sleep if I just knew _why_ someone had broken into my room. Of course, I’ll pay you for your work, too!"

She smiles at me, leaving behind the proper smile she had worn before and that Miss Harrison tried to teach me at her school.

I wonder whether Misses Hughesbury has gone to a similar finishing school as I have been sent too.

“So, will you help me?”, she asks me, her eyes pleading once more and her hands folded in front of her chest.

I wonder whether she knows how ridiculous she looks. A perfect caricature, one could say.

Regardless. It is a case. Not just that, it is a case that will be well-paid _and_ that will lead me closer to finding my mother. Of course, Edith has told me not to do so, but I am Enola Holmes.

I am alone.

Smiling, I nod:“Of course. May I suggest we talk somewhere more _private_?”

I quickly glance at Edith who is eyeing me warily and I can’t help but beam at the prospect of discovering the mysteries that lay ahead of me.

* * *


	2. The unrobbed woman; File II: To look like a wallflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This story is not historically accurate and the way Victorian households are portrayed is basically me making things up that sound somewhat believable but aren’t necessarily true. I did not research this- please do forgive my misgiving. *
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> Welcome back to Chapter Two, which actually came out on the day I promised it would come out, so I am really, really, proud of myself because that usually never happens!
> 
> Moving on, a big thanks to all those that left a kudos/comment/bookmark! I’m glad you guys enjoyed the first chapter and I hope the second chapter lives up to your expectations! But, before we begin: I have watched a video on Victorian slang! And I liked it!
> 
> A lot!
> 
> To cut things short, I used some Victorian sayings in this chapter (and I will continue to do so). I hope I used them properly – if not, please publically shame me – and I hope you might find reading them as enjoyable as I did using them. I will provide “translations” at the end (in the end note, to be more precise), so you can either scroll down now or play the fun little game of trying to guess what it means. If you did that, I’d love to hear your guys’ guesses later on!
> 
> And now, onto Chapter Two ^^

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Two

-

_6 th of August 1884_

_Case: The unrobbed woman  
File II: To look like a wallflower_

* * *

“Enola.”, mother once said:” London is not only an English city anymore. It is a city made by this world, made for this world and that is a good thing.”

She had told me after I had read my very first article on Sherlock’s deducing undertakings and hadn’t fully understood what she meant, until she explained further. You see, London, to my mother, was as diverse as its people and now that I have lived here for just short of half a year, I am inclined to agree.

People from all over the world – India, Hong-Kong, Australia, Guiana, Bahamas, the Gold Coast and plenty of others – have made their home in the country’s capital and it makes for such a vibrant life, rarely found anywhere else. I’ll have to admit, I could hardly keep up at the beginning – I was used to the boredom of the English countryside after all.

But not anymore. And I am proud to tell you that I have gotten used to London’s bustling and hustling streets – most of the time – riding a bicycle _still_ is not the most pleasant of undertakings – and that I have come to enjoy each of its corners as much as the other. You can tour through the better off neighbourhoods and admire their lavish architecture. Or you might take a walk through the poorer districts, housing the working class and offering all the different spices of life. Or one can visit the factories on London’s outskirts – though I do not know why one would want to go there – or-or one takes a stroll through the parks in its centre, enjoying the peace and quiet only found in nature, a welcome relief from modern society.

And, against all odds, all of that can be accomplished within a day’s time.

You see, dear reader, growing up on the countryside any and all excitement had to be crafted by oneself and many a day was spent in boredom. I knew the fields around my family’s estate by heart and after years of exploring, they all looked the same. Before, I had never seen so many different neighbourhoods and places so close together, each one of them is deserving of their very own, detailed description.

Now, to describe the place Misses Hughesbury had pointed me to just earlier today, one best uses the phrase _butter_ _up_ _on bacon_. The streets are wide and well-cared for and while busy, they aren’t nearly as crowded as most other places I have been to. I have never seen such lavishness before – except for when I had visited Basilwether Hall maybe – and I find myself momentarily stunned by the beauty of the place.

But enough of that. As you may have concluded already, I did not come here today to ogle the buildings – I am on a mission and I intent to take it seriously. You may remember, but today a woman called “Ada Hughesbury” came by Edith’s and asked for my help, as she felt like her room had been broken into – but nothing had been taken. However, you most likely do not know yet that she asked me to come in tomorrow. To search her room and to do “whatever it is that detectives do” – claiming ill health and exhaustion as reasons why she did not want me to come in today.

You may be surprised then, to find me already at the houses doorsteps, but let me explain!

My first case has thought me many a things – my name is a blessing, not a curse, boys are not always a nuisance, Sherlock is better than Mycroft and the extent of human cruelty does not always spare their own next of kin.

And, of course, one should never reveal their full hand – to anybody, be it by accident or be it someone you think you can trust.

Why I ever thought I could fully trust Sherlock is a question I myself have yet to find an answer to and I regret I gave up my mother’s and my method of communicating. I can only hope Sherlock has not spared the time to check the newspapers for our messages.

Regardless. Tomorrow, the servants will – undoubtedly – be informed of my arrival – be it by an official announcement or the gossip that is bound to travel through the house faster than I could possibly question them. Therefore, it is of the highest importance to me to preserve my cover if I want to stand even the slightest of chances to interview the servants without raising suspicion – they might just hide away important information that is of highest concern to this case!

Which is why I decided to visit the Hughesbury’s estate earlier than I was asked to.

I find myself smirking slyly as I look down, smoothing over my skirts. After all, I’m wearing a maid’s uniform already. I might as well make use of it, am I not right? And then...

“Good Afternoon”, I say, as I walk up to a group of tattling woman:”My name is Clove Burdock – the new maid?”

.

.o.O.o.

.

In all fairness, the servants would, most likely, not have been so _gulpy,_ had not so easily mistaken me for a maid had I announced myself at the front door.

But I didn’t. In fact, I sneaked in through an open window and simply started working. It is astounding how easily people believe you _anything_ if you simply look unassumingly enough and a maid folding sheets is as unassuming as one could possibly appear.

But I digress – now that I have successfully infiltrated the Hughesbury household, I’ll have to find a way to unobtrusively ask questions – and the best way to get answer to suspicious questions is by not asking them in the first place. It may seem to be quite a daring undertaking, but fear not! Mother used to claim that men tend to loosen their tongues when under the influence of liquor or when it company of people they deem unimportant and I have figured such traits hold true for most human. It is a rather advantageous fault of mankind and I intent to utilize it to its fullest extent.

“A new maid?”, the woman next to me questions:”And we weren’t even told!”

The woman shakes her head and I try to hide my discomfort to the best of my abilities, as to not give me away – I can't have her asking too many questions, or my cover might not hold up. And while I am sure Misses Hughesbury would not _mind_ me disguising myself as one of her maids – she seemed open enough for it – it certainly would do me no good to admitting I don’t fully trust her either.

Her case is fairly dodgy and I can’t bar anyone from suspicion. Npt until I have found evidence, that is.

“Oh, well, she is going mad anyway, that woman. Don’t tell anyone, but have you _heard_ what she said?”, Charlotte – I remember from when she first introduced herself – says, shaking her head as she giggles.

I smile at her encouragingly. It feel like I might have gotten lucky – Charlotte seems to have no qualms divulging information. And without any prompting too!

“And? Have you?”

Oh. Well, I suppose I can’t get away without any question at all. But I could be worse of, couldn’t I?

“No. What happened?”

Of course, I already know what Charlotte is talking about, but mayhaps she has some more information. Maybe she heard rumours and perhaps she has even seem something – I just need to play along a little bit longer.

You may be surprised to hear, but mother insisted on me learning how to act. I despised every single lesson I had to endure, but it does seem to pay off at times like these.

“You have not been told? Pity! Pity!”

Charlotte leans closer and looks around conspiratorially. If the situation had been any different, I might have told her she is merely making things worse, but I wisely keep my mouth shut – I can’t have her feel offended.

“The Misses says someone broke into her room – but she has no proof! We had a great laugh about it already!”

Charlotte leans back again, opening one of the doors leading to another bedroom. To my chagrin, it is not Misses Hughesbury’s room – oh well, I will get a look at it tomorrow.

“When Mister Hughesbury asked her, she simply said she could “feel” it – but that’s it! Can you imagine?”

I frown at those last words. That – Now, it seems weird, doesn’t it? It doesn’t line up with what I know – but perhaps I was simply mistaken.

“No evidence at all? Nothing? Not even the smallest bit?”, I ask. I must have been mistaken. I simply must.

But I am not.

“No! She simply said it has happened and after that – nothing! It is ridiculous, if you ask me...”

Charlotte cackles again and I try my best to smile – while carefully filing away the information she has provided me with.

You see, I find it...interesting that Misses Hughesbury has not told anyone else of the exact reason as to why she suspects someone to have been in her room. She mentioned her correspondence and some other things being out of place to me, but she seemingly did not want anyone else to know about this and it makes me wonder what she could be hiding.

Charlotte’s and mine conversation trails off as we start cleaning this next room, but I try my best to pick it up again once we’re done. Charlotte seems to know her place around these halls and I am sure she has yet more information to divulge. If I pose as a gossiping maid, I might get my hands on all of it and get a step closer to solving this mystery.

“Do you know why? Why she would make up such a thing?”, I inquire, hurrying to keep up with Charlotte. We’re making our way down a flight of stairs, which I assume lead to the laundry room.

Charlotte’s answer is not what I expected.

“Of course I do! I know about _everything_ that happens in this house – nothing passes by me...”, she says and _smirks_ , before shaking her head and continues:”And what for her reason and all...I suppose it all makes sense, with her husband and all and...”

And then Charlotte just...stops. In the middle of the sentence. She glances at me, before opening the door to the kitchen and leading me inside the laundry room. We both put the dirty covers down into a boiler, greeting the woman washing them, before I am lead away again.

“We will need help with this evenings dinner – the misses is expecting guests.” Expecting guests? Did she not claim exhaustion earlier today? “As you have yet to receive your working place and the proper uniform...”

At this, Charlotte eyes me curiously, before shaking her head.

“...I think it’d be best if you stay out of sight for now.”

I hastily agree and follow her, wondering why she stopped her explanation earlier? Had she not wanted to speak in front of the other maid?

I keep pace with her, regretting the lunch I bought myself prior to coming here – it seems places like these are always hectic. But I do not let it dissuade me from my goal.

“May I ask what you were talking about earlier?”, I question, trying to sound casual. To my delight, Charlotte does not seem to pick up on any disguised intentions. Instead she ask:”What I was talking about?” and I hurry to reply.

“About why Misses Hughesbury claimed her room to have been broken into?”

Strangely enough, Charlotte’s steps slow and I notice her casting a glance at me several times. I wonder what it is that could possibly be so important and I prepare myself to commit anything she say to memory – just to be disappointed.

“I-Oh, I am terribly sorry, but I really shouldn’t. Mister Hughesbury’s private matters should stay that way – private.”

I force myself to smile and nod along.

“I would not want to overstep any boundaries.”

Surely, you’ll agree with me to find it strange, insulting one could say, that Charlotte was so ready to gossip about Misses Hughesbury’s business, but refuses to talk about her husband’s. I had never thought much of such notions when I had lived in the country side. We had been three woman and one of them valued privacy more than anything. I had never occurred to me someone might not view mine as important as that of another.

Oh well. I am London’s very own lady detective. I am specifically here to change such points of view.

We come to a halt in front of yet another door and the kitchen is revealed behind it.

I almost forgot. I was ordered to help prepare dinner – and quite frankly, I will have to find a way to avoid doing that. I have never really cooked before – even when I had jumped from the train – you may remember the first time Tewkesbury was almost murdered – something that has happened entirely too often to him already – and I don’t think posing as a maid is a good time to learn it.

I might have to polish some of my more – mundane skills, so to say, as to avoid situations like these in the future.

Mother thought nothing of them, claiming if her husband had not known ho to take care of a household neither does she have to know, or I for that matter, and I am inclined to agree with her – at the same time, it _is_ a useful skill to have.

“Oh, that’s Anne!”, Charlotte suddenly exclaims, startling me.

“She’s a real _church bell_ , if you ask me – but she is good at what she does!”, Charlotte adds and laughs, as she points at the other side of the kitchen. I follow her finger, eyeing the other maid carefully.

She looks meek. It’s the first thing that comes to me mind. Meek and entirely uninteresting, which makes her so much more suspicious.

Mother used to say that the most ordinary looking people can accomplish the most extraordinary of feats and my mother has always been a very wise woman. I will have to get closer to her, but before I can make a move, I am already ushered away by Charlotte and put in front of a stove.

“We are to prepare the salad! Now get to it!”, another maid, whose name I don’t know, practically shouts in my ear and I make a grab for a knife sitting close to me.

Well. I should be able to cut vegetables. I think.

Apparently, I already picked up the wrong knife.

. O .

I manage to escape the kitchen after chopping up vegetables for entirely too long and I regretfully stare at my finger, which I have cut. It is rather unfortunate, but not of great concern – mother once said the most painful things are the least important and for now, she proves to be right. I still have to find more information and staring at my finger won’t help me. The three maids I questioned down in the kitchen had nothing of interest to offer and I never managed to talk to Anne. Charlotte had been gone for the entirety of the time I had spent in the kitchen and the only lead I have found so far is that of Mister and Misses Hughesbury’s relationship.

In short, my time is almost up and I have yet to show something for it.

I duck into another room and pretend to clean, looking around to see whether I can find something suspicious – especially along the windows. It is not Misses Hughesbury’s room I am in, but I am on the right floor. If the burglar came from the outside, they might very well have gotten in through another room. It’d be strange, as that would mean whoever entered had been explicitlyhere for Misses Hughesbury’s room – but it is a train of thought I refuse to rule out just by improbability alone.

The windows don’t seem to have been tempered with – and neither seems anything else out of place. I curse the lateness of my investigation – the room was broken into already a week ago and many a clue might have gotten lost by now.

I am almost ashamed to admit, but it is only now that I come to the conclusion that I might lose more clues if I don’t act now.

You see, while I am convinced I will be a great detective, I have yet to make any experience and it shows.

Checking whether the halls are clear or not, I hurry along. And eventually, I reach my destination.

Ada Hughesbury’s room.

And it is here that I find Anne – the maid Charlotte had been talking about earlier.

In fact, once I enter the room, I observe her flinching back and picking up a previously discarded duster.

I take my time closing the door behind me – time to think and to plan my next step – you see, every good detective is prepared for questioning of any kind and I do not intent of blundering a second time. I had not expected for Anne to be here, in fact, I hadn’t expected anyone to be here. Misses Hughesbury was said to rest in the garden and I had hoped to find the room empty. I won’t be able to follow my usual procedure with anyone in this room – but perhaps, I can hide my investigation well enough and mask my questions as mindless gossip like I had done earlier.

It is almost evening and I will have to leave soon. Mayhaps it may prove to be advantageous, this meeting, after all. Mother used to say as a woman I would not be dealt a great many cards in life and that I will have to use everyone last of them to their most. And the situation I find myself in right now is such a card.

“Good afternoon”, I greet Anne, smiling politely. I see her shift uncomfortably and am reminded that I had interrupted her doing something – I am left to wonder what.

I seem to have found a suspect after all, don’t you agree?

“Afternoon”, Anne greets me back and then proceeds to dust the shelf closest to her.

She seems nervous, I note. And she is the first person I have met today who did not want to know my name.

“I’m Clove”, I introduce myself regardless and smile at her once more, hoping to initialise a conversation this time, but Anne doesn’t even smile back.

“Anne”, she replies, her voice cautious and I am left to wonder what exactly Charlotte meant with Anne being a “real _church bell_ ”. So far, she has answered more of my questions that Anne has.

We spent some time in silence. I pretend to clean. It almost feels like Anne does the same.

It is after five minutes or so that I grow bored and find myself wondering what to ask first – until ultimately deciding to find an answer to the last burning question I have on my mind.

“Anne, if I may ask, what do you know of the relationship between Mister and Misses Hughesbury.”

“Mister and Misses Hughesbury?”, she asks, confused and I smile shyly. She has seemed to loosen up – which is exactly what I want.

“Yes? It seemed like their relationship is rather... _strained_...”

“Oh, no! No!”, Anne responds, immediately:”He adores her! It just seems – a bit excessive sometimes...But regardless! Where did you hear _that_ rumour? I’ve seen you talk to Charlotte earlier, but she is always most tight-lipped about Mister Hughesbury’s matters...”

“Oh, I was just told earlier something was off? I didn’t fully understand...” Why would Charlotte hide information so – so _mundane_? “...It had everything to do with those strange claims Misses Hughesbury seems to make. The one where someone broke into her room?”

At this point, I must tell you something first: Humans, for the most part, enjoy talking, as I have learned today, and most of them will give up information freely if it just keeps the silence away.

And just as I predicted, Anne continues our conversation in the most pleasant of ways I could have imagined.

“Oh that! I-I haven’t heard much. You see, I wasn’t on duty that day...”

I make a note to verify that claim. If she truly wasn’t on duty, it could cast her innocent – as well as guilty.

“I’ve heard Misses Hughesbury was simply unsettled by something in her room – perhaps it wasn’t anything but, who knows – maybe she _has_ been robbed.”

Her voice turns almost bitter and again, I make a note of her strange behaviour.

“Misses Hughesbury owns so many things – I wouldn’t be surprised if it simply slipped her mind to check for some of her jewellery. Not that I would know – and, of course, I do hope nothing like that has happened!”

I agree – neither do I, though it would make the case a simple burglary. But, surely, you agree with me – having a case like this is so much more interesting than a burglary.

Mother used to tell me simplicity was boring more often than not, and I am tempted to agree with her.

Anne and I spent the next few minutes silently tending to the room. It is only after I have brushed and dusted my side of things – and after I inconspicuously checked the windows – that I am reminded I will have to leave soon.

I think I am fairly well-trained but even then, braving London streets at night without any company is a challenge I have yet to overcome.

“Well, it seems that we are done for today”, I say, smiling at Anne and for a few tense seconds I feel like I have been found out – as if I have forgotten an elementary details. But then Anne nods and smiles to and together we leave the room.

And I use that moment of loneliness to slip away, into a darker corner.

It is getting late and I have talked to enough people today – it is time for me to go home and go over all that I have learned today. It may not be much – but it is so very much more than I knew before.

. O .

I should have known today would not end as easily as it has begun – and of course, my investigation could not end as smoothly as I had hoped.

I am on my way out, prepared to tell anyone who might ask I was sent to make some last minute purchases – I had listened closely enough to the maids’ complaints to know of things they might need, but luckily I am not questioned as a get closer to the servant’s exit.

That is, until I catch the eyes of a butler.

I should have known to stay more hidden and I greatly regret I did no. I hastily try to escape his view, but I fail to do so. Yet, I could have imagined his interest and it is only when the butler marches up to me, his steps determined and firm, that I realize he is indeed, coming for me.

It is now that I must retell you a story from my youth – or rather my mother’s. You see, my mother was a very clever young girl who knew how to get in trouble – and she did so quite frequently – It is here that I have to add that my mother did not get her rebellious streak from anywhere. Supposedly, my grandmother hadn’t been all that different and her father had been rather lax as well. It was only when she got married that things turned sour.

Regardless. One day, mother sneaked downstairs, into the kitchen, intending to grab a cookie she had not been allowed earlier – and she had managed to stay undetected, until she was caught with her fingers in the proverbial – and not so proverbial – cookie jar.

Of course, my mother bolted immediately, but being the young girl she was she had not been able to outrun the maid and had soon enough been caught and brought to her father, to be properly scolded.

You may now wonder, how that is linked to this rather... _precarious_ situation I have found myself in, but fear not – the story is not finished yet. For you see – the maid had not known about the former installed ban. In fact, when she had spoken to my mother, she had simply offered her assistance and it was only when my mother had run that she found out something was amiss.

If my mother had not acted suspiciously, no suspicion would have fallen onto her, because no misconduct would have been noticed. And it is a similar position I find myself in. I could run. And while I am quite confident in my own abilities, I might get caught or worse – might cause a scene I am not yet ready to explain.

If I do not run, there is a chance he simply has an errand for me to run or some other mundane question. I would keep my cover and slip out unnoticed, evading any suspicion. I may have to clear it up tomorrow, with Misses Hughesbury, but I am positive I will have found an appropriate reason by then.

But if I do not run and he already knows, not only is my cover blown, but I will have been caught to and might be brought before the Lord of the house – which would not only put me, but Misses Hughesbury in danger.

I squint, eyeing the butler walking towards me. He is an older gentleman and I suppose I could defend myself.

My mind is made up. Luck favours the bold. I can always try to reason myself out of any peril and if not – Edith and mother have taught me well.

The butler comes to a stop in front of me and I ready myself.

Now. I am not a friend of violence. But I believe every lady should be able to defend herself and I don not plan to get involved with the police – it be a sure-fire way for Mycroft to send me back to Mrs. Harrison’s finishing school for girls. I doubt Tewkesbury’d be able to help me out a second time and, as much as it pains me to admit, I don’t think I’d be able to escape without any help.

Mayhaps my decision not to run was wrong after all.

It is too late now.

But to my utmost surprise, the butler seems to know my name.

“Miss-Miss Holmes? Are you Enola Holmes?”, he exclaims and I relax my stance. He isn’t supposed to know my name. But he doesn’t seem to want to call me out either.

Perhaps we should wait a bit, don’t you agree?”

“It must be you! I was informed you might arrive today!”

I nod, before frowning. You, my dear reader, will most likely agree that this is highly suspicious. The only person who could have possibly known about my arrival was Misses Hughesbury – but I hadn’t told her either.

When the butler steps closer to me I take an intuitive step back and it seems to remind him of common propriety and he backs away a few steps, smiling apologetically.

“I offer my excuses for my rather...bold demeanour. It was not my intention to scare you – but I thought I had recognized you and couldn’t help but wonder, whether, perhaps, you are here on behalf of her ladyness?”

I give myself a moment to think about that – he knows who I am, he knew I had come here today and he searched me out, but not to chase me away.

It is suspicious, isn’t it? I am tempted to question him now – but I fear I may drive him of, which is why I will reign in my curiosity – for now.

“Indeed, Mister...”

“Mister Grayson.”

“Indeed, Mister Grayson. I...was undercover. To question the staff without any prejudice – I hope your forgive my intrusion.”

Mister Grayson beams at me and waves it off with a simple gesture of his hand.

“Do not worry, Miss Holmes – I understand.”

He nods and I mirror his gesture, still guarding my features.

I do not trust this man.

“Am I to believe you will depart already?”

“I was planning to, yes. I need to be home soon and have been able to gather some information that will surely prove helpful...” - Never give away your full hand - “...once I examined Misses Hughesbury’s room.”

I give him a court smile and am about to say my goodbyes, but Mister Grayson is faster. It is almost as if he would try to keep me from leaving had I taken another step back and the longer I stay within this house, the more tense I get.

I want to leave. Now. I need to write down what I found out – however pitiful it may be – and I need to see whether I can come up with a conclusion yet. Perhaps I will have an epiphany as to what could have happened!

“I am glad to hear that”, Mister Grayson says and he is smiling, _again_ :”However, may I take up five more minutes of your time, perhaps, Miss Holmes? For you see, I have some... _concerning_ information that could help you – and Misses Hughesbury.”

He’s still smiling. I force myself to smile back and yet, can’t keep myself from taking another step away from him.

Perhaps I did find another suspect after all.

You see, when I was younger, my mother taught me that there is no such thing as “good luck”.

“Convenient coincidences don’t exist, darling. If something is too good to be true, it most likely is the wrong conclusion, a deception to lead you astray. If you did not have to fight for something, it is nothing but a pretty lie that will only help you rest your conscious and nothing else.”

I remember the exact day she told me and I can’t help but agree with her. This offer is is entirely too convenient. However, it is a lead – even if it may be a wrong lead – hence why I decide to listen. And if Mister Grayson _does_ lie, it will reveal so much more of his true intentions.

“Well – I have seen a man hanging around the house these past few weeks – almost a month, I think. Perhaps that could help?”, he says and I nod. Maybe Anne was right. Maybe someone had taken something and Misses Hughesbury hadn’t noticed. Maybe the thief got almost caught and had to flee, not taking much, maybe not taking anything at all.

“He...He seemed like a real _Skilamalink_ and when I saw him slink around the back alley, I had him chased away – though some maids claim they have seen him hang around the backdoor again. You may be lucky and catch him.”

“They did? That-that might indeed be helpful. I’ll make sure to look into it, Mister Grayson”, I reply, smiling courtly.

He smiles back.

I suppress a shudder.

He clears his throat and I remember – I have yet to ask him something.

“Oh, before I forget, Mister Grayson”, I exclaim:”May I be so bold to ask as to why you knew I was here?”

I could have added something to that question. But anything else would have given him a reason to latch onto and I do not want to take away from his answers honesty – which in this case, is the flicker of uncertainty that appears in his eyes before he clears his throat another time, stepping back too.

He’s hesitating, I note. Perhaps you find that as suspicious as I do.

“Misses-Misses Hughesbury had her suspicions you may want to come in today and told me – in case something were to happen. Her ladyness apologizes for her boldness and expresses her hopes you may not resent her over this – it was only in your best interest.”

He most definitely hesitated. It gives me more information than that _fimble-famble_ of his.

“Will you come back tomorrow?”, Mister Grayson asks and I affirm, hastily, hoping he has not caught me getting lost in my own thoughts.

“Of course – I will have to conduct some more investigations. I have yet to examine Misses Hughesbury’s room – it is the scene the crime took place in after all and whoever disturbed the room’s peace and quiet – they must have left a clue of some kind.”

I really hope they did and I just have not spotted them yet. I do not have many leads as of now – maybe tomorrow will hand me something more concrete.

Mister Grayson smiles at me and extents a hand. I shake it and nod to him.

“Until tomorrow, Miss Holmes”, he says and I respond:”’Till tomorrow, Mister Grayson.”

I shudder once more. He should not have known that I had been here. Either Misses Hughesbury is cleverer than I give her credit for – or he knows something I don’t.

And I don’t like that feeling.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butter upon bacon: Extravagant. Too extravagant.
> 
> Gulpy: Gullible
> 
> Church bell: Someone who talks a lot.
> 
> Skilamalink: A shady person
> 
> Fimble-famble: a nonesense excuse
> 
> * Clears throat * Hello. Welcome, my dear readers, to the final note. Remember, how last chapter, I said each case would consist of five chapters each?
> 
> Well, I lied! As you may have noticed, last chapter, I asked you guys to publically shame me if I write more than 4k per chapter and now I wrote one that is roughly...5k. Yeah.
> 
> And that’s why I decided to cut out the second part! So, technically speaking, more stuff was supposed to happen in this chapter, but that would have gotten a bit too long and I want to at least try to adhere to my “Somewhat short chapter?” standard (for all those who are now wondering:”But Blue! This is almost 6k!” let me tell you: That is a short chapter. For me. This is a short chapter for me. Medium chapters are 10k and long chapter are 14k.)
> 
> (I write too much =D).
> 
> But, to get back on topic, the first case’s chapter count has now been changed to seven – eight if you take the “Epilogue”/in between cases chapter into account as well, which I don’t because I have failed already and do not wish to make it worse.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As you may have noticed, we have seasonal (chapternal? Archernal?) characters now! Don’t worry, you do not need to remember their names (for longer than each case that is and if I ever change my mind, I will re-introduce those characters at a later point) – however, I like a good detective story and every good detective story puts clues out for their readers to find – which is exactly what I did!
> 
> Is the culprit in this chapter already? I won’t tell you. Are there any useful hints at all? I won’t tell you either! Would I love to read your theories in the comment section regardless? Ab-so-lutely!
> 
> So, please. Do indulge me and we’ll read each other in two weeks! 
> 
> Bluestpaw
> 
> PS: I’d really like to hear your guys thoughts on the “tone change” (is that the right way to call it) that I feel like happened this chapter. I personally think the first chapter captured Enola's voice so much better, but that might be because the weather right now is depressing, which means I am sad, which means I will be unhappy with pretty much everything I do.
> 
> I’m looking forward to your opinions ^^


	3. The unrobbed woman; File III: An interesting client

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is I again, with yet another chapter. For once I don’t have a whole lot to say at the beginning – yay for me ^^ But, of course, thank you to all who left a kudos and/or a comment! I’m glad you enjoyed last chapter and I hope you will do so once again! See you at the end!

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Three

-

_7 th  of August 1884_

_Case: The unrobbed woman_  
_File III: An interesting client_

* * *

I still remember the first time I ever solved a puzzle. I was five – or maybe a bit older – and it was the first word in a coded letter my mother had wanted to sent to someone – I assume it may have had something to do with the group she and Edith are in.

I, of course, didn’t know at that time.

I came up that day to my mother and asked her about it. And she smiled at me and called me her _bricky_ little girl, before explaining the code.

She was proud of me and proud of every single one of my unladylike abilities, which I am eternally grateful for. I like to believe my father would have been as well, though all reason disagrees with that sentiment.

“Your father was a gentleman, Enola”, my mother once told me:”He never once hit me and he rarely ever raised his voice – but he was from the countryside and – if he were still alive, god bless his soul – you’d have learned how to stitch silly little trinkets instead of wounds.”

It saddens me to know that only my father’s untimely demise allowed me to be the young woman my mother is so proud of, but at the same time, I am relieved. You see, I remember my time at Misses Harrison’s finishing school for girls well, however, I do not remember a single one of my classmates.

It is a bitter fate that awaits every single one of them.

Regardless. I digress. You see, it was a year or so after Sherlock’s first big case broke in the newspapers that I told my mother I’d like to become a detective, just like him. I was holding the latest clipping in my hand, clutching it and getting it all wrinkled. My eyes were shining with excitement, or so I assume they did, as I could already imagine myself becoming Sherlock’s apprentice, helping him solve the many cases that were sure to be delivered to his doorstep every single morning.

But my mother’s expression turned grave that day. It had come to me as quite the surprise, because not once had my mother ever been disappointed by my hopes and plans for the future – until that moment.

“Enola”, she had said, smiling bitterly, and now that I think of it, her advice is quite reminiscent of the advice given to me by Edith, the first time I met her.

“Whatever you do in life, do it for yourself. Not because you want to impress someone. Not because you want to live up to someone else’s name. Do it only for yourself – and only then you’ll find happiness.”

Needless to say I rarely ever bothered her with newspaper clippings ever again.

I still collected them, though. And I still loved riddles and mysteries and dreamed of becoming Sherlock’s apprentice – the more ironic it is that, now, I am my _own_ detective, hiding out from the very brother I’ve wanted to acknowledge me all my life, as I make my way to a case that promises all that I have ever wanted.

Life truly does tell the greatest stories, doesn’t it?

Regardless. It isn’t easy trying to escape detection – especially not if London’s best detective is sworn to find you _and_ the entire police force is looking out for you too.

But it is possible. And, as much as Misses Hughesbury’s case confuses me – I have yet to find a lead, although the butler, Mister Grayson, the maid Anne and the skilamalink I was told about are all on my list of suspects – I am grateful for this opportunity.

It even lead me along another post office, which I can send my response to Tewkesbury from – Sherlock Holmes once deduced a burglar’s position from the post offices he used.

I suppose having collected all those newspaper clippings has been helpful after all. But for now, I will try to solve a case worthy of its own news article – though, I do suppose, getting any form of press coverage may not be to my advantage.

.

.o.O.o.

.

I have never thought myself to be as self-centred as Mycroft or as socially awkward as Sherlock. And yet, I find myself sitting in a beautiful parlour, with a view on the gardens, trying my very best to seem like the lady I am expected to be, desperately wishing to be released from captivity.

My brothers and I may be more similar than I wish for us to be.

I was welcomed into the house by Mrs. Hughesbury herself and then asked to sit down with her and chat – over tea and cookies that is – before starting my investigation.

She insisted.

“You are my esteemed guest, after all”, she had said:”And it would be insulting if I were not to invite you to come and sit with me for a while.”

I would have liked to tell her I was very much fine with _not_ having to drink tea and to simply start my search – as the longer we wait the more evidence gets lost due to accidental and deliberate meddling – but I have learned enough of modern society to know that such would be considered rude. Yet I find myself out of place, trying to remember the pitiful lessons on how to behave that I have learned from Mrs. Lane or the rules taught to me by Misses Harrison.

I fear it is not enough.

However, simultaneously, I find myself excitedly awaiting our chat. My mother knew of this case, which means my mother knows Mrs. Hughesbury, which means, in turn, _she_ might have information on my mother. If I play my cards the right way, I might just be able to find out more about her. Where she is, for example. She may have visited me some time ago, but I do wish I could contact her more reliably.

Hence, why I am currently sitting at a neatly decked table, holding a cup in my hand and preparing myself for a conversation filled with gratuitous and mundane topics.

But as it turns out, I have misjudged Mrs. Hughesbury. Quite greatly, in fact.

“Miss Holmes, what is your opinion on the matter described in the latest headliner of the “The Journal of Dress Reform”?”, is the first thing she says after we’ve been served.

She doesn’t even wait for the maid to have left – meaning she is quite content with discussing such...controversial topics in public.

Her question catches me off guard. You see, Mrs. Hughesbury – Mrs. Hughesbury is everything one imagines if you were to portray an upper class woman. She wears fancy dresses with expensive jewellery and has manners thought to you only by lifelong indoctrination.

She seemed to be the perfect portrait, pretty and polished and entirely mindless. But on top of the table lies an issue of the “Magazine of Modern Womanhood” and I am surprised she knows of the “Journal of Dress Reform” at all. Perhaps I had been too quick to judge – my mother warned me to do so and I regret I did not listen to her – as Misses Hughesbury seems genuinely interested in my opinion.

“Well...”, I say, smiling awkwardly and buying time by taking a sip from my team. I hurry to look for a response – yet I do not have one. I know the headliner – the “Journal of Dress Reform” is one of the publications my mother might use to contact me, after all – yet I never paid much attention to it, nor any possible controversy surrounding it.

You see, clothes and, more importantly, their social relevance, have never played any role in my life – up to the point when I arrived in London and even now, I often find myself pathetically unknowing of anything related to fashion.

My mother was the one seeing to it that I was dressed and more often than not it exposed my ankles or didn’t fit me in some other way. And now that I live in London, while I have learned about clothes’ significance in everyday life, I find myself judging their worth neither by appropriate meaning nor by their beauty, but by their usefulness. I have worn crinolines, corsets, trousers, over skirts, underskirts, bustles and any variety of them, usually relaying on second hand clothes, that rarely ever fit me. I have spent five ponds on simple servant clothes and I have haggled (I am _finally_ getting the hang of it) for hours just to save myself five schillings on a beautiful silk gown.

In short, I do not care about whether my ankles are seen. Life poses too many much more significant questions as to waste time on such trivial issues. But the question was posed and it almost feels as if Misses Hughesbury is awaiting my response like a prayer.

I shift uncomfortably.

I wonder what she expects me to say.

“I believe it to be an...interesting topic”, I say, lifting my tea cup to my lips once more.

“You think so?”, she responds, mirroring me.

“Yes. Quite. It...”

I trail off, putting my cup down again, without drinking and, with a frown and a few seconds of hesitation, Misses Hughesbury does the same.

I force myself to smile once more.

“It...seems so ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?”, she ask, eagerly leaning forward, before casting her eyes downwards in an expression that almost seems...ashamed.

“I myself...If I’ve ever had to uncover my ankles in public, why, I think I would feel...well...undressed.”

She whispers the last word and I have to strain my ears to understand her. It almost felt as if she were ashamed to say it.

“Really?”

“Yes. It feels – scandalous, almost. Don’t you agree?”

I do not. In fact, I think, just like a corset, having to hide your ankles is a sign of oppression, if one is forced to do so. But I suppose, to Misses Hughesbury it seems differently.

“I am sure, the “Journal of Modern Dress” merely wishes to open up the possibility for anyone who wants – without facing repercussions”, I explain further. I do hope my answer will satisfy Misses Hughesbury’s curiosity and although she frowns, she does lean back, seemingly content with my answer.

I force another awkward smile on my lips.

And the conversation continues.

Now, I will spare you the loathsome details as, soon enough, our conversation moves on from somewhat relevant topics to rather uninteresting ones and while I do find myself enjoying them – it isn’t what I am here for.

At last, Misses Hughesbury picks up on my nervousness.

“Is anything the matter?”, she asks and I flinch, because I had hoped she wouldn’t notice. But no time like the present, so I find myself answering:”I was just wondering when...”

I halt my speech. Would it be rude of me to ask? Was it, perhaps, even expected of me right now? I do wish I were talking to Edith instead, or my mother – social rules are strange and so much easier to ignore than to maintain.

“...when I should start the investigation? I was under the impression you’d want me to look at your room.”

Misses Hughesbury has yet to ask me about coming here yesterday – in disguise – and perhaps, the butler never told her. I haven't met Anne or Charlotte yet either, so I assume I am safe as of now.

I wouldn’t want her to feel offended, after all.

“Oh, of course!”, she exclaims, her expression turning sheepishly:”Of course. It is just, your mother, Miss Holmes, is a truly magnificent woman and I couldn’t miss my chance to meet her daughter – I do hope you forgive me for coercing you into this meeting.”

She smiles apologetically at me and I force myself to smile back.

So she does know my mother. Personally, from what it seems. Mayhaps she has met her not too long ago?

“My husband will not return until later tonight, so I did not think anything of it – I must admit, I welcomed you myself to keep your arrival from most of the staff.”

“Your husband?”, I ask, surprised – though I shouldn't be. Hadn’t I been told just yesterday of their rather strange relationship? Though I was under the impression it was a happy one.

“Oh, yes. He is convinced I merely imagined the break in and fears people might...talk should I keep insisting. It is another reason – besides your recommendation that I have received, of course – as to why I chose to come to you – I was sure you’d be more understanding of my situation.”

She smiles and I nod, though my thoughts are racing. It almost sounded as if…

“Does Mister Hughesbury not know that I am here?”

“Of curse not! And...”

At this, Misses Hughesbury leans closer once more, nervously glancing at the door leading outside:”...I wish for that to stay that way – I wouldn't want him to get mad.”

She leans back again and I -

“Does he hit you?”

The question is asked before I could properly think about it – and how inappropriate it is of me to ask such things. Or rather, I assume it to be an inappropriate question, though I wish it weren’t.

But luckily, while Misses Hughesbury does freeze at first, she doesn’t seem to mind all that much either.

“Ha, oh, no! No!”, Misses Hughesbury starts laughing, perfectly hidden behind her hand.

“Miss Holmes, really! He does not, in fact, I love him dearly...”

She smiles shyly, down at her cup of team and her eyes take on a rather dreamy expression.

“In fact, I am glad he asked for my hand in marriage. My father wanted to betroth me to someone else first – a certain Sir Brickny. I was quite overjoyed when Floyd asked instead...”

She looks up from her cup of team again and the moment our eyes meet, a surprised “Oh!” escapes her lips, before blushing.

“I-I am sorry. I love my husband dearly – but he does not like me keeping secrets and I do not wish to disappoint him. I – He is-He can be rather conservative at times, but he is a perfectly splendid husband! He rarely ever even shouts!”

Her words – they remind me of my mother’s almost. And while my mother has never spoken ill of my father, I do know she hadn’t been happy either.

“But I digress – you wished to start investigating, did you not?”

_._

.o.O.o.

.

Misses Hughesbury’s room is pretty. I, of course, knew already, but I find myself admiring the carefully selected furnishing once again – and this time, I can do so openly.

“Oh, do you like it? I have chosen many a thing myself – I am especially proud of the fabrics. They were handwoven, by weavers not too far from London!”, she beams, before hurrying towards a wardrobe and pulling out a drawer.

“I have this...oh, here it is!”

Misses Hughesbury turns around again, holding out a _sneezer_ , proudly displaying the finely woven fabric.

“It was made by the same women – no machine will ever be able to achieve this kind of craftsmanship!”

I look at it and it _does_ seem of splendid quality – but I am the wrong person to judge that.

“It is”, I say, smiling politely, before turning away once more – I hope Misses Hughesbury does not find my lack of manners – I supposed I do lack them after all – too appalling. But my brother does have a certain reputation and perhaps I can make use of that

I make my way through the spacious room, taking in as many details as possible, before checking things I couldn’t inspect yesterday. I start with the windows, opening them once, examining the lock – it seems not to have been tempered with – before taking a closer look at the other side of the glass. There aren’t any smudges there and neither are there any on the wall below – it is highly unlikely anyone scaled it.

“I’m glad you like it. I bought it at an adorable little shop down, on Rupert Street. There’s another store close by that sold me that painting there, over the bed. One of my husband's drawings used to hang there, but I believe supporting the local art scene is an admirable lane to pursue.”

I close the window again and turn around, checking other parts of the room that I might have to look closer at, before following Misses Hughesbury’s gaze.

The picture proudly displayed over the bed is – well, it isn’t pretty. Not necessarily.

It is sad. It shows a scene in one of the many factories that have popped up all over the country throughout the last century or so. And the imagine it paints is anything but pleasant. Working women are standing there, exhaustion visible in every one of their limbs as their clothes – barely even rags – almost blur into the grey of the machines they’re working with.

It isn’t a pretty picture by any means, but it is a great painting. That is not what is keeping my attention, however. Something about it seems...off. I just can't seem to be able to put my finger on _what_.

“They used to be weavers, the women in the painting. They now work in a factory owned by Sir Brickny – Remember? My former fiancée? Anyway, it is – shocking to see how greatly their life has been changed due to modern inventions, don’t you think?”

Misses Hughesbury looks down at the sneezer, wearing a wistful expression. I take another look at the painting. It really does seem off, but that is not why I am eyeing it at the moment. No, instead...

“Misses Hughesbury”, I start saying. I turn around, trying my very best to sound confident. I am detective. Understanding my client is elementary for finding suspects – it may reveal possible enemies or anyone who might be holding a grudge.

And fighting for women’s right is a sure-fire way to make those.

Though I fear, I may be overstepping boundaries regardless.

“Misses Hughesbury, you...seem to be greatly invested in the suffr...”

“...Suffragette movement?”, she interrupts me, finishing my sentence, before she slaps her hands in front of her mouth in an entirely too exaggerated manner.

“Oh, my excuses, I forget myself...I should not have interrupted you. But yes. I – I am quite new to the movement, you see, but – I have never been convinced of something’s importance more than now. I – four years ago, I gave birth to my sixth child...”

I can’t help but wonder how many of them are still alive and scold myself at the same time for thinking such dark thoughts.

“She was my second daughter and...Maria, my first daughter, god bless her soul, died shortly after birth, but Elaine! She’s four years old now and a beautiful, happy girl, always running around with her brothers and-and so full of life!”

Misses Hughesbury falls silent for a moment, before using the sneezer to dab her eyes.

“I remember stories I was told about myself when I was younger and it is...so different from who I am now. I-I love my family dearly, but I want my daughter to have as many chances as her brothers have. To bee able to keep that liveliness all throughout childhood and become a gorgeous and happy woman and I fear, should society not change, she may be squashed.

This-It lead me to looking for other people like me – that is how I got to know Miss Grayston. It isn’t much, but I want to do something to better this country – in fact, I see it as my duty as a British citizen! You do understand, don’t you?”

She is looking at me now and I am somewhat speechless by the sheer intensity of it.

“O-Of course”, I stutter. Misses Hughesbury smiles at me and I fall silent, turning away and inspecting another part of the room.

The more I learn about this woman the more I wonder what truly happened in this room. I would not at all be surprised if this case were connected to the suffragette movement.

But how..?

I do not get to finish my thought, as a hesitant knock on the door disrupts the room’s peace and both, Misses Hughesbury and I, look up at the same time.

“Yes?”, my host says, her voice filled with curiosity and I step back, as to better observe what will happen. We have been interrupted and it may just be a coincidence, but it may also be a decoy, deployed to distract us.

One can never be suspicious enough, my mother once told me. I remember it was during a shopping trip – and a salesman tried to cheat us.

“Humans are natural tricksters, Enola – always keep that in mind when dealing with them.”

I smile bitterly at that memory. Humans are indeed tricksters – even my own family.

“Mylady?”, a timid voice asks and the door is opened. It is neither Anne nor the Butler, nor the other maid, Charlotte, and the newcomer doesn’t even pay attention to me –it does seem she truly simply had to speak to her mistress.

Perhaps I am being too paranoid. But surely, you agree with me when I say something seems off about this home, don’t you?

“Milady, we have run into some trouble regarding the preparations for the banquet – may I ask for a few minutes of your time?”

The maid glances at me shyly and I perk up. A banquet? It seems my sudden movement has caught Misses Hughesbury’s eye, as she her next words are undoubtedly directed at me:”Oh, don’t worry, Miss Holmes – it is simply a small celebration in honour of my husband’s company – they will open another factory in three weeks. Nothing to be concerned about.”

But then she fully turns to me, her expression turning apologetically:”But, I do fear I must depart for now – I like to personally oversee most of the planning. I am sure you understand.”

I do not. I’ve never been to a banquet before, as we neither had the money to afford one, nor did they ever spark my mother’s interest.

“A banquet is nothing but an excuse to dress up prettily, Enola. Be more than a doll. And if you ever wish to be one – don’t look for silly excuses as to why.”

But I do suppose, as the household’s mistress, it is part of Misses Hughesbury’s duties.

Yet another reason as to why I’d never want to marry.

“I will try to return quickly – until then, feel free to search the room. I’ve left all key necessary and a list with any valuables on the secretary – I do hope you will forgive my sudden departure.”

Of course I do. Quite frankly, I am glad for it – it did feel rather awkward, looking through the room as Misses Hughesbury was watching me and not a moment after she left, silently closing the door behind her, I let out a breath of relief.

I check the room once again, more thoroughly than I did yesterday, but still, I find nothing. The locks aren’t tampered with and there really isn’t _anything_ wrong with the window. Her wardrobe is neatly organized without a trace of tampering, though that may very well have been cleaned away already.

I do wish Misses Hughesbury would have come to me earlier, but such hopes are fruitless. She did not and I am convinced I can solve this case regardless – I simply must put my intelligence to use.

Eyeing the door suspiciously, I check it one last time. But the lock is in perfect condition – in fact, I try it from both sides, just to be sure – and this leaves me with yet another possibility – so far there are three as to how the intruder entered.

The first one is easy. Someone, somehow, snuck into the mansion – maybe that skilamalink the butler mentioned yesterday – but they did not enter through the window. If that is the case, I will have to check the other doors as well – and the windows – and, perhaps, question the staff once more. As I’d be introduced to them as a detective, I’ll surely have an easier time _asking_ my questions. Though obtaining an answer may pose more difficult.

Of course, there is also always the chance that, mayhaps, Misses Hughesbury _has_ been mistaken. Maybe no one had been in this room after all – though I sincerely hope that is not the case.

50 pounds may be a fortune, but life in London isn’t necessarily cheap.

The last possibility is that no force was needed to enter the room at all – the culprit might have been part of the staff.

Witch leaves me with yet another question I must ask myself – _why_ did anyone break into this room?

Hoping to find answers, I look at the list left for me on the secretary and I double check everything. But Misses Hughesbury was indeed right. Nothing had been taken.

I look through the room once more. Knock on walls and floors. Still, my search is not to be rewarded.

Well. I will need to take a look at the outside once more anyway – I might as well check for any hidden rooms by comparing the height of each room to the one outside. Perhaps that will give me a lead what else to look for. Because what else could have happened? If nothing was stolen, something must have been hidden in here from the very start, something Misses Hughesbury did not even know about. Or, perhaps, whoever broke into this room may have run out of time and had to leave – it could have been a servant, who had been surprised by another one – or maybe, whatever the intruder had been looking for simply hadn’t been here.

There are too many possibilities for me to start narrowing them down yet, but I have some ideas that are worth looking into – it isn’t more than I had had this morning, yet, as least I could check some things.

I turn away from the secretary once more, finding myself face to face with that picture once more – that picture that had seemed so off to me.

The door is still closed. I may not get this chance a second time.

The painting is hung right above the bed and I have trouble to get to it, especially as I do not want to leave any clues behind.

I do not know _why_ I mistrust Misses Hughesbury, but I suspect it is because this case seems as if many secrets are still being kept from me.

She knows my mother, I believe. And wherever my mother goes, secrets will follow.

I, carefully, as to not break or damage it – bedsheets can be smoothed over, a painting can not – take the picture from the wall, before putting it on the bed.

There is nothing behind it.

I knock on the wall, where it had been hung – but nothing indicates of the wall being hollow.

I left out a huff and hang the painting back, getting off the bed and smoothing over the wrinkles I had caused.

Maybe it is simply the scenery that has me alarmed – it does speak to me, even if it is through horror. It is disappointing, however – though I do not know why. It was a simple picture.

It doesn’t matter. The picture had nothing to hide – it was merely a fleeting thought I paid too much attention to. Giving the bed one last check, to make sure my movements have been properly concealed, I turn around, to the last piece of furniture that I have yet to inspect.

The secretary.

Of course, I have already looked at the list with valuables, but I do need to check each individual drawer for clues.

It doesn’t take me long either. There aren’t many of them, drawers, and their contents are as mundane as is to be expected. Paper. Post stamps. Pens. Stylographs. Bottles with ink. In fact, only one of the drawers is looked. The one containing Misses Hughesbury’s correspondence, I suppose – though I cannot be sure.

The lock does not seem to have been tempered with, not unlike the locks on the door or the window, – a curious details. You may remember – yesterday, when Misses Hughesbury talked to me in Edith’s tea house, she told me one thing that had tipped her off was that this specific drawer had been open – and she swore she had never left it that way. If that is true but the lock seems to be in perfect condition, someone must have had the key, meaning that whoever had broken into this room was either a _dipper_ talented enough to steal a key, copy it _and_ put it back in time without being discovered – which only someone from the staff could have accomplished – or, it was someone who was allowed inside the room regardless.

It may not be much, but it does narrow down my list of suspects.

And now, to the letters themselves.

I look at the key in my hand, before opening the drawer. I turn it. A “click” resounds – the lock is open. Pulling open the drawer, I eye the correspondence inside – I wonder whether I may read it?

Should I? Would it be helpful?

My eyes lock on the dates and names they display – it is nothing out of the ordinary. I shuffle through the stack of papers. They go back all the way to last year, but their contents seem to be of innocent nature. The written conversation of two friends who cannot see each other more regularly. The letters sent to a mother, by a daughter who misses her dearly. A note meant for a son studying far away from home.

The dates make sense, the names make sense and so do the post stamps. None of this is important – so why would anyone want to look into them? Did the intruder suspect to find something else? Did they, mayhaps, wonder if this one, locked drawer contained something valuable? But if their intention was a mere robbery...why not take the jewellery in the wardrobe? Or on the vanity table? It – It doesn’t make sense. Was perhaps another letter taken? But, they do seem complete and…

And that’s when I notice. A small, fine line, right where the drawer stops, right at its walls. And I realize...

There’s a second layer. _Of course_ there is a second layer.

“ _Humans are natural tricksters, Enola – always keep that in mind when dealing with them.”_

I already _knew_ that and yet, I underestimated Misses Hughesbury once more.

Mother would be so disappointed.

I glance at the door. I don’t hear anything yet. I glance back at the drawer and take out all the letters, setting them on a neat stack, careful as to not mix up their order.

No one can know what I am doing. Clearly, Misses Hughesbury did not wish for me to find this hidden compartment. She would have told me, otherwise. Which means she does not believe that the contents of whatever is hidden in this secret compartment are of any importance, when it comes to this case at the very least. Which, in turn, is a rather strange way of thinking, don’t you agree? She _specified_ that this drawer had been broken into, surely she’d believe anything inside of it could help me! Quite frankly, I don’t understand and I…

I remember a lesson my mother taught me, when I was once again reading about one of Sherlock’s many cases.

It had been about a woman who had poisoned her daughter’s, rather violent, fiancée, just before the weeding, but had, in court declared that “she was no murderer!”

“Enola. A woman may go to any length to protect the thing she views most valuable to her, even if this means sacrificing something else, of almost equal, value, in return. That woman surely was no murderer – but her own morality did not matter to her as much as her daughter’s happiness and thus, she found herself poisoning that _Admiral of the red._ It may have been wrong of her and you may not understand – but keep in mind that you have never found yourself in a similar situation.”

I had listened, of course, before going back to my reading.

The woman from the case had been hanged for her crime.

I violently shake my head. Regardless. This is not about hanged women and I do not have a lot of time. Misses Hughesbury is keeping secrets from me, most likely to protect something that is of higher value to her than figuring out why her room had been broken into.

Now, it was wrong of me to have read her private correspondence earlier and it is entirely wrong of me to pry into her privacy even more, but I do not have any other choice. After all, I’m not here merely to find the intruder, but rather to find out about my mother’s residence. And, as a matter of fact, it is entirely wrong of my mother, _and_ of Misses Hughesbury, to keep that information from me!

With shaking hands, I try to unhinge the drawer’s floor, but I fail to do so. I grow nervous, my eyes flickering between the door – I pray it does not open – to the secretary, searching for anything I might – there. A letter opener. That should do.

My hands shake even more now as I use the sharp edge to get in between the drawer’s wall and bottom, but – after several attempts that make me curse my own excitement – I get it open, pushing it up and – revealing more letters.

I suppose I should have expected that.

They are different than the others though. They are clearly written on different paper. They display an anonymous sender – as far as using code names can be considered anonymous – and a sigil is printed on top – the sigil of a...solar eclipse? No, that isn’t right...but it does show both, the sun and the moon.

But it is not the sigil that I find myself interested in – not for long, anyway. For you see, these letters…

They are coded.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bricky: Clever/brave
> 
> Sneezer: Handkerchief
> 
> Dipper: pickpocket
> 
> Admiral of the red: Someone who drinks a lot
> 
> * Clears throat* Hey there! The plot thickens and it will also not be done in three chapters! Because I had to cut out some parts again – partially because it would have gotten too long otherwise and also because I just liked the idea of leaving it off where I did.
> 
> (And also because the chapter’s title I first chose doesn’t make sense otherwise, but now it will fit next chapter!)
> 
> However, in roughly four chapters (?) we'll be done and move on to the next case - which is probably going to be a murder. Gotta raise the stakes, amirite?
> 
> Anyway.I hope you enjoyed today’s chapter, I’d love to hear your feedback and I’d definitely like to know whether you guys have a clue as to what is going on (because I like leaving clues and I also love to hear your guys' thoughts!).
> 
> Read you later  
> Bluestpaw


	4. The unrobbed woman; File IV: An inconvenient meeting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appreciate the code, guys. Please appreciate it =(
> 
> Also, enjoy the chapter and see you at the end ^^
> 
> AN: Shoutout to

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Four

-

_7 th of August 1884_

_Case: The unrobbed woman  
File IV: An inconvenient meeting?_

* * *

“ _7 15 15 4 13 15 18 14 9 14 7, 5 14 20 12 1!”_

I was five years old when I found this rather particular message on my doorstep. When I had woken up that morning it had seemed like any other day – I had gotten up, had gotten dressed and was just about to head downstairs when I saw the note – and I had been overjoyed by it. You see, growing up on the countryside like I did offered little to no excitement at all and I jumped at the idea of having an adventure, my imagination having already cooked up a story filled with intrigue and mystery. Breakfast was all but forgotten that day and I took the note into my room and brooded over it for hours.

It took me two to realize it must have been written by my mother – I’d like to claim I was able to recognize her handwriting by comparing it to other sample, but I must disappoint. I merely realized that Mrs. Lane would not have played such games with me – and, quite frankly, I had been rather disappointed by that news.

As exciting a life my mother was living, I had never imagined her to participle in intrigue and mysteries.

Regardless. The code I found that day was simple. I am almost ashamed by how long it took me to solve it – though I suppose most of my time was spent dreaming rather than doing any _actual_ thinking.

As you may probably already have guessed, to solve this code one merely has to match the numbers to a letter of the alphabet, according to their position. “One” equals “A” “Two” equals “B” and so forth. Therefore, the message does, in fact, not say “ _7 15 15 4 13 15 18 14 9 14 7, 5 14 20 12 1!_ ” but instead “ _Good Morning, Enola!_ ” a much more comprehensive message, don’t you think?

Anyway. It had been simple code for the simple mind I possessed, but as I grew up and – may I say so myself – became more sophisticated, so did my mother’s codes.

“ _Epslt Lewl?”_ \- Slept well? It’s easy still – in fact, I solved this one much faster than I solved the first one.

“e p o h l e t w u y l l a v e“ - “Have you slept well” This one was tricky, as the letters weren't grouped into words anymore – it took me some time, but after three days I mastered it too.

“ _21 9 4 25 6 21 13 15 15 21 15 18 1” - “_ U I D Y F U M O O U O R A” – “I am proud of you.” Now, I had to bring the letters into the right order as well. It was an easy solve with the knowledge I had gained from the previous two codes.

Those were the first four codes I had ever been given to solve and they had been handed to me over the span of a week. My mother stopped surprising me with them after the last one and a week later I complained to her about it.

She seemed quite satisfied with my nagging and resumed to teach me more – the messages getting more and more complicated every time another one appeared at my doorstep.

Now, you may not understand why I am telling you this, but, you see: My mother prepared me well. She taught me many a thing useful to the modern woman and more often than not those things were common codes or various ways to hide messages. And yet, I find myself staring at a coded message, I assume my mother has sent, and find myself unable completely unprepared to solve this specific riddle.

“ _3 CUMIARRI SPESS HCEIOS. MYTBS SSPISAOSUL RVEIR IARENTA VISBNOAEID HPEALC. V LNANEI SNTEUS. HULABIHT PRASEONTTOI. ROROMT DUAUNNPSURDUSH SUPDORONRNJE IEACL. HDHEJE HJEAFF HKLIFI.”_

There must be a message in there somewhere – surely it is connected to that one, singular “3” right at the start. But I don’t know yet. It could be anything and – I need to write it down.

I glance at the door, try to listen to any footsteps but here nothing and then, my gaze drifts down, to my corset. The first time I ever hid anything inside a corset it was money, though it was a terrible hiding spot, as I realized not much later. However, it _is_ storage room and I make great use of it.

I have to copy those letters, as many as possible. But Mrs. Hughesbury can’t know.

Cautiously glancing at the door, I take out the piece of parchment I have brought with me on a whim and which I am eternally grateful for.

Now I just need a pen and my eyes catch on to the many scattered across the desk.

I glance at the door once more. Still, I hear nothing.

Quickly, I lean over the desk, my eyes switching between letter and my own piece of paper.

“ _CUMIARRI SPESS HCEIOS. MYTBS SSPISAOSUL_ _RVEI_ _R_ _IA_ _”_

I freeze. Are those...foot steps?

“ _..._ _NTA_ _..._ ”

Faintly now, I can hear sounds coming my way, but surely I still have some more time…

“ _..._ _NOA..._ ”

They’re coming closer. I bite my lip, my hand moving faster over the pieve of paper.

“... _EAL..._ ”

There at the door now and the doorknob is being turned and…

“Miss Holmes?”, Mrs. Hughesbury asks as she enters the room. I startle, before I whirl around, facing her, but keeping my hands behind my back.

The parchment is safely tucked away in my corset. The pen is laying next to the others and the hidden compartment is hidden once more.

But the uncoded letters are still laying on top of the desk, in a neat pile, and I nervously glance at them. Mrs. Hughesbury raises an eyebrow.

“What are you doing, Miss Holmes?”

I force myself to relax. I have eradicated any evidence of me having found the secret letters – and I was asked to…

“Investigate?”, I respond, turning to face the desk once more.

“Oh. Is that so?”

Mrs. Hughesbury forces herself to smile and I must say, she is a terrible actress – but it would be of greater advantage to me not to mention that. Carefully, I take the pile of letters and put them back into the drawer, before closing it shut and locking it.

“Indeed. Yesterday you mentioned it had seemed as if someone had looked through your private correspondence – and I figured considering you handed me the key to this very drawer you expected me to take a look at it...”

I turn to face her.

“I haven’t read your correspondence, of course. That’d be a breach of trust after all.”

Now it is I who has to force herself to smile, as I try to turn out memories of my mother.

“Privacy is – and will always be – one of mankind’s most important rights, Enola. You should _never_ deprive one of it”, she had told me plenty of times. And I agree, yet I feel like this once, one should make an exception, should they not?

But, as much as I dislike what I am doing, it seems to be working.

“Oh.”

Mrs. Hughesbury steps closer now, further intruding into the room.

“Well. Have-Have you found anything?”

She sounds nervous as she asks me and Ido not blame her – I am convinced no one was supposed to find these letters. But perhaps I should lay any worries she may have to rest – be it just to keep her from suspecting me.

“No. Sadly, I discovered no leads. The lock does not seem to have been tampered with and neither does the drawer appear to have been damaged.”

Which, come to think of it, means whoever entered this room _must_ have had a key. According to Mrs. Hughesbury the drawer had been open, after all.

“That-That sure is a pity!”, she says awkwardly and – perhaps it is just a trick of my mind, cruelly played on me – but it seems as if she is ever so slightly disappointed.

I am about to ask whether I could read her correspondence anyway, to keep up the charade, but we are interrupted once more. This time, the interruption is a lot louder, too. And a great deal less welcome.

It starts with the hurried tip-taps of feet coming up the halls, interrupt Mrs. Hughesbury’s and mine conversation for the time being, as we both look at the door. Then a voice calls out “Ada! Ada!” and I avert my gaze from the door, instead choosing to eye Mrs. Hughesbury. Someone is using her first name..?

The voice itself seems to belong to a woman so I am not at all worried it may be her husband – though that deduction was just a tad off.

Not a second later, a maid barges into the room and it takes me entirely too long to realize it is Anne – the woman I talked to yesterday, in this very room. I shift uncomfortably, hoping my clothes will distract her from the obvious similarities I share with a certain “new maid” that disappeared after just a single day of work.

It seems as I am out of luck, as she does recognize me. She freezes for a split second upon taking note of me – but she guards her expression once more fairly quickly and doesn’t say a thing on it.

I am quite grateful for that. I’d prefer not having to tell Mrs. Hughesbury about my earlier exploits.

“Ada, your husband has returned early.”

...What?

“What?!”, Mrs. Hughesbury shrieks – the very same thing I was thinking not a second earlier.

“Floyd is home already? But...he isn’t supposed to be here any earlier than six pm!”

“He arrived not a minute ago”, the maid responds:”He appears to be in a rather cheerful mood, though I did not stay around to find out more.”

“He-He is?”, Mrs. Hughesbury stutters and I eye both of them curiously.

Anne called Mrs. Hughesbury by her first name. Several times – it cannot have been a mistake.

“Indeed. I will can leave now, if you may excuse me A-” Finally, Anne glances at me once more, her expression taking on a rather stubborn edge. “...mistress”, she finishes her sentence. I can hardly contain my smirk at that and Anne scowls when she notices.

“I can try to distract him, mistress, but – if you were to care for my humble opinion –“

She glares at me another time.

“I’d advice you to send that detective away for now, lest your husband shall see her.”

Mrs. Hughesbury seems to be in a daze as she doesn’t not answer and Anne takes her chance to shoot me another dirty glare.

I did deceive her after all. Though it was, somehow, on her mistress’ orders.

“Yes...Yes, of course, Anne...”, Mrs. Hughesbury eventually murmurs and Anne scurries out of the room, not losing any time hurrying.

And neither does Mrs. Hughesbury.

“You must leave. At once!”

It seems she has shaken off her previous daze, as she grabs my by my wrist and drags me out of her room, pausing for just a second to make sure the hallway is empty. And then we are off, rushing through the hallway, our footsteps clattering through the building, too loudly as to not be heard.

I’d much prefer to sneak around.

I use the time wisely – by reflecting upon what I just witnessed and then asking:”The maid we just talked to...”

“Yes?”

“You seem to be quite close to her.”

She called Mrs. Hughesbury by her first name after all. Luckily, she does not seem to be bothered by my question at all.

“Oh, yes, yes we are. She is my best friend, in fact. I trust her with anything!”

We hurry to turn a corner and I notice we have entered a servant’s passageway.

I am surprised she knows this place at all.

Mrs. Hughesbury seems to catch on fairly quickly.

“I familiarised myself with these parts of the house as well”, she say, before I can even ask the question:”My husband did not like it at first, but I suppose I-as a modern woman I shouldn’t let that stop me, should I?”

Mrs. Hughesbury stops and looks at me expectantly and I nod.

“Exactly! Your mother must have raised you brilliantly, dear Miss Holmes, oh, and we’ve almost reached the _area_ already so we...”

I frown at that. She wants me to leave...entirely? I presume that _is_ what they have been talking about – yet it does not mean I am in agreement with it.

“With all due respect, Mrs. Hughesbury, but I have yet to interrogate the servants”, I object:”Perhaps they have seen something!”

“Oh, you can come back tomorrow but we _cannot_ let my husband see you!”, she dismisses my inquiry and I would have objected once more, had it not been for yet another voice interrupting us.

“Mistress? Mistress, are you here?”

We both freeze as we hear the person approach and Mrs. Hughesbury bites her lips, before giving me a light shove.

“We’ll meet ad Edith’s in two days – you can interrogate the servants then. Now go!”

And she rushes off already, answering the servants call with a high-pitched and slightly out of breath:”What is the matter?”

I watch her leave and when she turns a corner, I dart into another hallway.

“Time is always of the essence, Enola – one never knows what misgivings one could encounter if they were to wait.”

Time is indeed of the essence.

It seems as if I’ll have to go behind my clients back once more.

. O .

It does not take me long to find Anne and, luckily, we are alone in the boiler room when I do.

It shall make my questioning a great deal easier, I suspect.

Come to think of it, this is my first interrogations as myself, isn’t it? I hadn’t needed to question anyone while I was working the case of the Missing Marquess and this is my real one anyway!

This being my first real case doesn’t stop Anne from being extraordinary frosty, though – her expression sours the moment she lays eyes upon me.

I can’t say I blame her.

“Miss Holmes. What a pleasure to finally be...properly introduced to you.”

“Likewise. Quite likewise.”

I smile. Anne does not. I stop smiling.

I straighten my back and try to shake the feeling of silliness that overcame me for just a second, getting ready to follow the only proper lead I have found so far.

I am a detective. This is a case – and Anne is a suspect.

“My apologies, but I fear I must ask some more questions.”

You may think I am being quite bold, but do I have much of a choice at this point?

“You do?”, Anne responds, her voice filled with a great deal of derision.

“And you came straight to me?”

Her eyebrows raise and I am caught off-guard by her question – she is right, of course. I had indeed been looking for her, yet I did not expect her to notice.

“That-I mean no offence, but you are Mrs. Hughesbury’s most trusted servant and...”, I splutter, but do not get to finish my, well, excuse, as Anne interrupts me, quite harshly, if I may say.

“And I suppose that makes me the prime suspect?”

She sounds angered and hurt and she is scowling now, and yet I find it hard to stop wondering why she sounds so defensive.

Now, it may puzzle you, but Anne is right. She is indeed one of my prime suspects. Her, that suspicious butler from yesterday and the skilamalink I was told about. If she is indeed the most trusted servant – by Mrs. Hughesbury, that is and I have no doubt she is, as Mrs. Hughesbury told me herself – Anne could get away with sneaking into her mistress’ room undetected easily. She may get away with stealing something, even, but – most importantly and this is what clued me in – she behaved so differently, yesterday. She did not speak with any more fondness of her employer than one expects of a maid and yet she is Mrs. Hughesbury’s best friend?

Quite suspicious, if you were to ask me. Yet, I don’t have much of a choice but to start of tame – I can’t accuse her of anything without proof and I am severely lacking any sort of evidence so far.

“Seeing as you know Mrs. Hughesbury well, do you know what could have occurred that night?”

Knowing what exactly happened is the most pressing question I have yet to find an answer to – I doubt Mrs. Hughesbury was only imagining things – she appeared to be of too much of a sound mind for such a thing to happen. And those letters I have found are reason enough for her to always lock the desk drawer.

Sadly, Anne sticks to the canon story so far.

“I don’t know. Maybe someone tried to steal something and had to leave early-”

“The windows weren’t damaged”, I interrupt her, but Anne seems unimpressed. I nod. Right. I shouldn’t have interrupted her.

“I’m sorry. Please do continue.”

“As I was saying – a failed robbery. Mrs. Hughesbury keeps plenty of priceless jewels in her room. Though, perhaps someone was simply scouting the room for a break in at a later time – nothing has been taken. We checked several times.”

That...is an option I had not considered yet. I’ll have to follow up on it.

“Does anyone come to your mind who might want to harm Mrs. Hughesbury?”, I ask next and Anne frowns.

“Is there anyone who might want her harm, well...”

Anne stares at me for entirely too long, before shaking her head and mumbling something underneath her breath I don’t quite catch.

“ _Of course_. She-She just recently took up work within the suffragette movement! There are plenty of people who’d wish harm upon her! Society! Her husband! Her own mother sent her a letter condemning her actions!”

She did? I try to imagine what it would be like to have one’s own mother so opposed to their own ideas – yet I fail to do so. You may know already, but my mother has never been anything but supportive.

“Enola – society is putting enough weigh into a woman’s cradle – we must not make it any more difficult for each other!”

My mother is right. We mustn’t. And I suppose, for all that matters, Mrs. Hughesbury’s mother is not the one to have broken into her room – but then again, Tewkesbury’s own grandmother had tried to get him assassinated.

Perhaps it was the mother all along.

“Do you have anyone specific in mind?”

It is now that Anne hesitates ever so slightly before answering and I make sure to take note of it.

“No. No one.”

She sounds almost bitter saying it – and I wonder whether I might not have just found a lead.

I really did wish I had brought more paper.

“Very well. Any political enemies...”

“ _Political_ enemies?”, Anne says, letting out a dry laugh that sounds faintly sarcastic:”Miss Holmes, Mrs. Hughesbury rarely ever leaves to house! Quite frankly, she would not have any time to get involved with parliament’s intrigues!”

She does make a point. Which means next up is...

“...Spurned lovers?”

Now, Anne positively splutters, before turning her full attention to me, her eyes sparking with irritation.

“If you are looking for information, Miss Holmes”, she says sharply:”I advice you to look into a man called “Jimmy Foster”. Other than that, I cannot help you.”

She turns around violently, grabbing a chemise and dunking it into the basin with enough force to spill some water.

She curses silently.

“Jimmy Foster?”, I ask.

“Yes. he’s some-some _gentleman with four outs_ that we’ve spotted hanging around these parts a few times. He tried to cosy up to Charlotte, that’s why we know his name.”

“Cosy up?”, I ask, raising an eyebrow,

“Oh, yes. If it weren’t for societal standards, she’d wear her hair in _follow-me-lads_ all the time...”, Anne says and I glance down to my own hair, regarding the loose curls hanging all around my shoulders. Anne does not seem to notice – or mayhaps she simply doesn’t care.

I presume it is a petty concern to have, anyway.

“Charlotte? The other maid I talked to yesterday? The one who showed me to the kitchen?”

“That very maid, indeed.”

I frown. That might be helpful.

“May I ask whether Charlotte would have had access to any keys?”

Stunned, Anne eyes me – until her expression turns dark once more.

I fear I may have posed that question a tad too hastily. My mother used to warn me of such things, after all.

“There is a time and place for everything, Enola, and a rushed thing is never a good thing” yet I seem to have forgotten her lesson already.

“Yes. She has”, Anne responds curtly:”As do most servants in this house, as most of us are trusted by our mistress!”

Most?

“Most?”

Anne’s expression sours even more. I really should watch what I am saying, should I not?

“Enough of that”, she hisses sharply:”Now, if I recall correctly, Ada wanted you to have left already and I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment, so now _leave_!”

She points at the door leading to the servant’s entrance and I follow it, before taking a step away from it.

“I understand your worries, but...”

“I will make sure no one knows when you will come back, here, Miss Holmes”, Anne interrupts me once again. She looks over her shoulder and then take my wrist, dragging me towards the _area_.

“And should anyone be missing for any reason, I’ll tell you, but now _leave_! You shouldn’t be here anymore at all!”

She is right. I shouldn’t.

“Very well. I thank you for your answers...”

“Oh, get _over_ with it, will you?”

. O .

I decided that this time, I will honour Mrs. Hughesburry request to leave. I have collected enough evidence, and as my mother once said, after we she had come home from getting groceries.

“One must never poker too high, Enola. Perhaps I should teach you sometime!”

She never did come around to teaching me.

She disappeared before she ever had the time.

But nevermind that. I am about to reach the area, my mind already whirling with all the clues I have collected so far, when I am yet again interrupted by an ominous voice whose speaker I just can’t quite make out yet.

Though this time the voice calls out my name. And it’s words it so much less pleasant than the previous two.

"Miss Holmes, it seems you are leaving already. I must say, I am quite disappointed you did not say your proper goodbyes. But then again, I _have_ heard from your brother that you are a rather...simple girl?”

I freeze as I hear that voice. It has that perfect, arrogant pitch that one only ever hears when conserving with London’s upper class.

Or their henchman.

 _Cold Coffee,_ I curse underneath my breath. i should have left earlier - and now I will have to face th music. 

I take a deep breath and put up my best, polite smile, preparing myself to encounter yet another suspect -Mother said first impressions are the most important interactions in one’s life – and I do hope I will be able to salvage _something_ , if I have not yet fully ruined it.

Regaining my calm (at the very least I tell myself I have regained my calm – I suppose I move rather stiff and I doubt my smile looks anything but terrified) I turn around – and freeze again.

“ _Humans are natural tricksters, Enola – always keep that in mind when dealing with them_.”

You may wonder why I am reminded of my mother’s words just then, but you see – it is not Mr. Hughesbury I am looking at. Instead it is the butler.

“It is great to see you back, Miss Holmes - and I am quite glad and I managed to catch you on time. Mr. Hughesbury has been looking forward to meeting you ever since I infromed him of your presence yesterday.”

.

.o.O.o.

.

I am reminded of my childhood once more as I am seated in the parlour, my head lowered in a picture perfect expression of childish meekness.

Of course I do not really feel that way – far from it – but you already knew that, didn’t you?

“Was I not clear, darling, that you were not to bring a _detective_ into this house?”

Mrs. Hughesbury is sitting next to me, looking very much like a scolded child and I can’t help but swallow the bitterness rising in my throat.

They are _married_.

“Yes. You were clear”, Mrs. Hughesbury responds meekly and I am tempted to huff. Though I do not want to tempt fate – or rather, Mr. Hughesbury.

I am in enough trouble already, as it is.

“Then, pray tell, why did you go against my orders and invite this-this _detective_ into our home?”

“I-I told you about the incident, darling”, Mrs. Hughesbury stutters, looking down at her neatly polished nails, her voice barely a whisper.

“I asked her to come to have a look at my room, to see if she could find any...”

She does not get to finish her sentence and I scowl at Mr. Hughesbury from underneath my lashes when he carelessly interrupt her:“You’re making a stuffed bird laugh! Don’t be _ridiculous_!”

Mr. Hughesbury lets out a huff and crossing his arms above his chest. It makes him look quite like a spoiled brat who did not get what he wanted.

He is quite acting like one, too, don’t you agree?

“I ought to punish you for your transgression”, he says and Mrs. Hughesbury lowers gaze even more.

I never wish to marry. I truly, never wish to marry.

“But I suppose I can’t sent Inspector Lestrade back home after he has just arrived...”

Mr. Hughesbury trails off and both, I and Mrs. Hughesbury perk up at his words, though for different reasons, I suppose.

I, because any place Inspector Lestrade is, is a place I’d rather avoid and Mrs. Hughesbury because, apparently, this is good news.

“You-You asked Inspector Lestrade to inspect my room?”

“Why, of course, dear! Your well-being is important to me – and I wish for you to be able to sleep peacefully. If a simply inspection is what is needed to put your concern to rest – then why, what a terrible husband I’d be if I were to refuse this?”

He glances at me and forces himself to smile and I am unsure what to make of it. It seems almost apologetic – though I do not believe a single word he says.

“My apologies for my behaviour earlier, Miss...”

I suppose the butler did not think it necessary to tell Mr. Hughesbury my name, when despiceably betrayed me to his master - it adds insult to injury and I decide to keep him on my list of suspect a little bit longer, be it just to spite him.

“Holmes”, I answer, hurrying to respond and - to my amazement - my last name seems to ring a bell.

Of course, most everyone i Lodnon has heard of the legendary Sherlock holmes by now, but not many people know he has family, lest a younger sister. But Mr. Hughesbury seemingly does. His expression turns surprised and his lips form a silent “oh”, before his smile morphs into something ever so slightly less faked.

“Holmes? Like the famous detective?”

“Yes. Like the famous detective. In fact, Sherlock is my brother.”

Once again, the comparison tastes bitter, but I wisely keep my mouth shut. Perhaps my relation to Sherlock will be useful for once. Yet, I am surprised he knows we're related at all.

“Really? What a surprise!”

Mr. Hughesbury steps closer, his posture losing all of its stiffness and I am surprised – I had expected Mister Hughesbury to turn curious or maybe show even the slightest bit of respect – though I suppose his behaviour so far hasn’t been...well, he wasn’t necessarily rude. I did, sort of, break into this house, after all.

Even if I was merely following his own wife's wishes.

“Why, I know him!”, Mr. Hughesbury goes on, positively beaming now, which is, well, quite a surprising twist of events. Most people, you see, tend to grow a severe dislike of Sherlock the moment they meet him face to face and all the glamour of toldstories dissipates like smoke lifting from a mirror. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense for Mr. Hughesbury to think differently and while I do know I am being quite rude, I can’t help but ask:”You do? You know Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?”

Now, his next words make a whole lot more sense.

They also force me to smile awkwardly.

“Oh, oh, goodness no! Not Sherlock! No, I know your eldest brother – Mycroft? Why, he visited not too long ago, agonizing about that no...”

Mr. Hughesbury voice slows down and he eyes me for a second.

“...good sister...”

It slows down even more.

“...of his...”

He trails completely off now and I force myself to keep up with that smile, though I suppose Mr. Hughesbury just had an epiphany of sorts.

“You...do not have another sister, by any chance?”, he asks. My smile falters. So does his.

I’ll have to answer, don’t I?

“No, sir, I do not have another sister. There’s only Mycroft, Sherlock and me.”

Mr. Hughesbury’s expression sours. A painful silence descends upon us. Mrs. Hughesbury is desperately looking for words, by the looks of it.

It is fascinating, really, how easily my brother can ruin the mood even if not present, isn’t it?

Mr. Hughesbury clears his throat. Mrs. Hughesbury giggles nervously.

“Regardless”, he says. He takes a second to scrutinize me and it feels as with every passing second he is adding yet another thing to an every-growing list of things to say to my brother once they eventually meet again. I do wonder just what exactly Mycroft has told him. Does he know I am _technically_ speaking a runaway? Will he force me to stay? Will he, mayhaps, simply sent for my brother and tell him about my investigation?

Would I be able to escape if it came to that? Can I somehow contact Tewkesbury on time if I am sent back to the finishing school?

Mr. Hughesbury clears his throat once more.

“Well. I suppose your family matters aren’t of any concern to me.”

I let out a breath of relief, masking it by coughing. I can’t have him suspect me of any “unladylike shenanigans”, as Mycroft would probably deem anything I do.

“And considering you haven’t stolen anything...”

Now, that is just unnecessarily rude and I frown at the implications – I am an honest woman and I haven’t stolen a thing in my life, _unless_ you count the money given to me by my mother, which Mycroft claimed to be his own.

I do, in fact, not count that.

Luckily, Mrs. Hughesbury seems to be as offended as I am.

“Darling!”, she exclaims loudly, rising to a stand:”How could you say such a thing! Miss Holmes is...”

“Honey, please, now is hardly the time...”

“Miss Holmes is a respectable woman and I will not let you insult her like...”

“Darling, please!”, he interrupts her and Mrs. Hughesbury flinches back, lowering her gaze. They stay that way for a few seconds, him looking at her, half turned and her starring at the floor.

But then something unexpected happens. In fact, it seams as if Mrs. Hughesbury had merely counted to five, seemingly collecting herself, before meeting her husband’s gaze and opening her mouth in an attempt to respond.

She doesn’t get the chance to. Letting out a huff Mister Hughesbury says:”Not now, darling? Later? We have guest!”

Mrs. Hughesbury closes her mouth again. And then she _smiles_.

“Later?”

He lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Yes. Later.”

Mrs. Hughesbury positively beams.

I shudder. You see, my mother did not talk about my father very often – but I do know that, when they had first gotten married, she had very much been in love with him.

“Your father was a great gentleman, Enola. He was everything a woman could dream of during our courtship – the very gentleman every man should strife to be. It was only after he told me to be quiet while he had friends over – in front of the entire company – that I realized, no matter how much he claimed to love me, your father would never see me as his equal.”

I have never forgotten those words. Neither did I forget the words that followed them.

“The worst a woman can do to herself is giving in to the idea that love alone will make her someone’s equal, Enola. Love alone will not bring you respect, nor will it give you the power to take your life in your own hands – never forget that, Enola. Never forget.”

I wonder if Mrs. Hughesbury believes love alone will make her her husband’s equal in his eyes – or her own. And yet I can’t help but feel like an intruder as she lovingly looks at him and I see him – surprisingly – gaze back very much in the same way.

I have to clear my throat to break the spell, but it is enough for Mr. Hughesbury to turn to me, his expression stern and a far cry from what it had been just seconds earlier.

“Of course, I can’t have people talking, Miss Holmes. I hope you understand that this is quite a...delicate matter. And I expect for it to be kept quiet”, he says, eyeing me strictly.

“Naturally”, I respond and it seems to be enough of an answer, as Mr. Hughesbury turns back to his wife once more.

“Splendid. Sweetheart, would you be a dear and show Miss Holmes out? I will be in my study, if I am needed and do please talk to Inspector Lestrade. That good man is making time for this case and we ought to be grateful for that...”

. O .

I find myself walking the halls of the Hughesbury’s house for a fourth time today – only this time, I am not lead to the servant’s entrance, I notice not too far into my journey.

“Now that my husband knows you are here, I’m sure we can return to my room and you can continue that investigation of yours...”, Mrs. Hughesbury says, as she leads me ack to her room.

She smiles at me happily and it almost seems as if she was merely doing me a favour – humouring me instead of taking my craft serious.

It is quite the insult, I must say.

At first, I reincorporate her smile, until I realize what going back to her room involves – and I have had one too many unpleasant surprises today already.

“Mrs. Hughesbury, I’m not sure if that...”

“Oh, I am sure Inspector Lestrade won’t mind if you are to finish up your investigation. Mayhaps you could assist him, no?”

I smile awkwardly.

That’d be a disaster. An absolute disaster that would most likely involve a wild chase through the house and a broken window, perhaps.

I _cannot_ be seen by Lestrade. Who knows how much Sherlock could find out about my residence with such a simple clue alone!

“That is not my concern, Mrs. Hughesbury, it is simply that...”

Mrs. Hughesbury halts, her features lighting up as if she had just had an epiphany – though I fear it still is not what I am trying to say.

“Oh, don’t worry dear! Of course you will still get paid, regardless whether you find a clue or not, do not worry!”, she exclaims happily and I can’t help but feel offended once again.

It seems I have given her the wrong impression, have I not?

“Oh, no, this...”

I step closer again, nervously checking every nook and corner.

“You see...I can’t be seen by Inspector Lestrade.”

“You cannot?”, she asks, turning to me, with a great deal of surprise:”But-Doesn’t your brother Sherlock work with the police all the time? Why do you not wish to see him, Miss Holmes, if I may be so bold and ask..?”

Now, how to say this..?

“He...just happens to have orders from my brother. Mycroft. To find me and bring me back home and...I’d prefer if that were not to happen.”

Mrs. Hughesbury’s bewilderment only deepens, until her expression turns to horror and I fear I may have chosen the wrong words yet again.

“Bring you back home..?What-What do you mean by that?”

She pulls me to the side, into a small niche, hidden away from prying eyes.

“Enol-Miss Holmes, are you saying you _ran away_?”, she asks, sounding incredulously.

“Well”, I respond, hunting my thoughts for a pacifying answer to that question. If she were to disapprove she is sure to alert Lestrade – and outrunning him might prove difficult, if I am caught in a house with everyone against me.

“I-I wouldn’t call it “running away” as much as...making my own way in this world. Aside from society’s expectations for young girls?”

I sincerely hope my response is convincing enough – I did try to connect to what Mrs. Hughesbury told me about her own hopes for her youngest daughter earlier today – though I fear it is not, as Mrs. Hughesbury has gone completely silent, her eyes widened in terror.

I prepare to make a run for it. We are on the ground floor and there are windows in this hallway, perhaps I can…

“Are-Are you insinuating you are living _alone_?!”, she interrupts my thoughts, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“Yes?”

I hate how much it sounds like a question, but I am too busy to slowly try and step away from her to properly voice my thoughts.

“That-Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Oh, not at all. As a matter of fact, my mother made sure I am quite adapt at defending myself!”

But still, it seems not to be enough, as Mrs. Hughesbury’s worry only seems to increase tenfold.

“And what about that other brother of yours, Sherlock? Isn’t he a detective, too? Can’t you stay with him? Per-Perhaps he'd take you on as an apprentice!”

“Yes, but – I am Mycroft’s charge and I’d – I’d rather be safe.”

“I-I...”

Mrs. Hughesbury is clearly searching words and I start to get nervous, as I really do not want to encounter Lestrade today.

“What about your mother? Can’t you stay with her?”

Oh. I forgot.

She doesn’t know, does she?

“I-I currently do not know where my mother resides. She has kept it a secret from me and...well, I was actually hoping you may know more?”

Mrs. Hughesbury’s gaze softens and I am hopeful she will give me a clue, anything, really…!

“I-I don’t know much, you see, we have merely ex...”

And then Mrs. Hughesbury stops herself. Averts her gaze.

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence though for me to know what she was trying to say – and I can feel disappointment rise in my throat like bile. It seems as if everyone is dead set on me never figuring out just where my mother is.

“Regardless. I – I understand concerns. I may disapprove of your living arrangements, but I understand.”

She smile. I smile.

I steal the glance at the hallway. I wonder whether Inspector Lestrade is still in Mrs. Hughesbury’s room.

“Oh, am I keeping you too long? My apologies, that was not my intention...Regardless, I need to ask you to return in two days to collect your pay – Of course, you do not need to question any more servants. I am quite sorry for wasting your time like this...”

She smiles politely and I frown, wondering what she means by that, until I realize-

“You...expect me to drop the case completely?”

“Why, of course, dear! The police is taking care of it now and...”

“Mistress? Mistress?”

We both turn around, facing the intruder – another maid.

Charlotte, in fact. She looks at me once, her lips forming a silent “oh”, but then turns her entire attention to Mrs. Hughesbury.

“Mistress, there is another problem regarding the banquet – the cake?”

“Another problem?”, Mrs Hughesbury says:”Oh dear, I better go leave and deal with this...”

She turns to me once more, a dazzling smile adorning her expression in such a way, I am almost blinded by it.

“Do please visit in two days – I’d hate to not properly reimburse you for all the trouble you have been to and – and thank you for taking your time. I will forever be grateful you did not doubt me!”

And then she leaves.

And I am left with a rather unsatisfying conclusion to my very first real case, haven’t I?

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Area: The name for a servant’s entrance
> 
> Gentleman with four outs: A man without money, wit, manners and credit.
> 
> Follow-me-lads: “Seductive curls draped over a woman’s shoulders” - you’d usually wear your hair up and I’m 90% sure that, if you working in domestic services, leaving your hair down would have gotten you fired on the stop)
> 
> Cold Coffee: Bad luck
> 
> Making a stuffed bird laugh: Saying something preposterous. 
> 
> .-.-.-.
> 
> Now, you may wonder “Why should we appreciate a dumb code, Blue?” Well, that’s simple: It took me five hours to make. I severely underestimated the time it would take to actually write that code down. 
> 
> At least I can say all those times I didn’t pay attention during Latin class to make codes instead has paid of.
> 
> By the way, if you manage to decode it/have an idea, let me know in the comments please! And, to clarify because I’m not sure where it may be confusing: This code is part of the overarching story (The case of the Curious Letters) and will not play any major part in this specific case. In fact, I hadn’t planned for them to be in here at all, but it just kind of made sense.
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoyed today’s chapter. If you did, please leave a comment and read you next time!
> 
> Bluestpaw
> 
> PS: Is the last scene too long? It almost felt as if I went over too much information you, as the reader already had – was it too drawn out? I’d love to hear you guys’ thoughts!


	5. The unrobbed woman; File V: A merry lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Reads “Yours truly” by Eivendine (which was absolutely amazing)* * Realizes she raises some really good points about the swiftness of sending letters during 1880s Great Britain * * Realizes my own estimate of roughly two weeks was way off and I should probably do some more research *
> 
> Well, hello there. As you may have realized, I wish to red con something said earlier – the frequency with which Tewkesbury and Enola communicate. I kind of forgot they had trains at that time (which is pretty sad) and was going with mail carriages.
> 
> Which is weird. But happened. And now I shall use my magical “Edit Button” wand to change that – it’s pretty inconsequential, though I wanted to let you guys know ^^ And how, onto chapter five – I hope you enjoy!

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Five

-

_9 th & 12th of August 1884_

_Case I: The unrobbed woman  
_ _File V: A merry lead_

* * *

> “ _Dearest Enola,_
> 
> _I_ _am so very grateful for the letter you have sent me – I found it surprising you found a way to respond so quickly and I fear, I might get used to it – so you'd better watch out!_
> 
> _At home all is fine and well – my mother is still pestering me with constant lessons, though it has gotten better, now that uncle has left for a deployment – he’s off to Egypt, for the war._
> 
> _I wish he hadn’t needed to leave – we may disagree on most everything we say, but he is my uncle and I hold him very dear. I am worried he might not return for quite some time, too – they say the war won’t last long, but I am unconvinced. My mother told me not to fret – those kind of wars never last long – but I can’t help but do._
> 
> _I really want him to come back._
> 
> _But enough of that. As you can imagine, I find myself with a lot more time on my hands now and I almost wish parliament were back in session – though I suppose I will regret ever uttering these words once I am back in London. As of now, I am spending most of my time growing roses – I have found myself becoming fascinated with the many hybrids that have popped up in recent years and wish to find my very own one day._
> 
> _I am convinced I have found a matching name already._
> 
> _Mayhaps you may join me at Basilwhether Hall sometime and I can show you around the gardens? Once you have found yourself some time in-between cases? I must admit, I am intrigued by this very first case of yours – both the nature of the case itself and the extraordinary circumstances which have brought Mrs. Hughesbury to you. If it had been me, why, I think I would have thought it a gust of wind, which unsettled her as much as it did, but then again, I could never disagree with your intuition._
> 
> _Please write quickly, as I want to know more about this “unrobbed woman” as you put it – your letters are the light of my day and your adventures shall bring me a smile on darkened days._
> 
> _Best wishes_
> 
> _Viscount Tewkeybury, Marquess of Basilwhether_
> 
> _PS: Mother just told me about her plans to visit London soon, to attend a formal dinner hosted by her friend – and she’d like me to accompany her. It may be coming as a surprise, yet I was hoping we might be able to meet? I know you are worried about your brothers finding you, but I am convinced neither of them will know about my visit and perhaps we can take a stroll through Covent Garden? It is beautiful this time of the year and I’d love to catch up in person._
> 
> _Please, do write back quickly!_

I smile sillily as I put the letter aside and watch Edith put a cup of tea down in front of me. I am surprised Tewkesbury managed to write back this quickly – but I am glad he did. I had asked him to send it to Edith once more and I had been rather surprised when she surprised me with it.

This time, I accepted it with more grace than I had before, trying my best to mask my emotions regarding it’s arrival.

Edith did not say a thing, instead telling me to sit down and I take it for what it is – her turning a blind eye for once.

I do need to get my facial expressions under control, don’t I? Mother used to tell me one should never feel ashamed of what one felt – yet I do believe, sometimes it comes in hand when one is able to hide their emotions.

My mother was able to – I had not a sliver of an inkling as to what she was planning, when she left that day.

It does not matter, I suppose.

“Your tea, Enola, and, you wanted to speak to me?”

Edith rips me from my thoughts and I am thankful for the distraction, as I do not like where my mind is leading e.

“Thank you.”

I accept the steaming cup and take a sip, before setting it down in front of me, pleastering a polite smile across my face.

From the way Edith raises an eyebrow, I notice that I must look ridiculous.

“Yes. I did want to talk to you, you see, I seem to have run into...a lull regarding my ongoing investigation and...”

Edith nods along as she sits down herself and I continue the conversation, explaining the situation I find myself in.

You may now be wondering why I had gone to visit Edith’s in the first place. Some may remember my earlier thoughts, when I elaborated on my rather well thought-out plan to throw Sherlock of my trail and they may assume my visit has merely been decided by a throw of dice – though you’d be incorrect.

For all purposes and intentions, I am here with a task. That task being to question Edith about Mrs. Hughesbury. She may have pulled me from the case, but I am most certain I will be able to solve it faster than Inspector Lestrade ever could – if he solves it at all, that is.

Not to mention that, perhaps, I can, discreetly, question Edith about the code I did manage to copy whilst Mrs. Hughesbury had been out and about.

“ _3 CUMIARRI SPESS HCEIOS. MYTBS SSPISAOSUL RVEIR IARENTA VISBNOAEID HPEALC. V LNANEI SNTEUS. HULABIHT PRASEONTTOI. ROROMT DUAUNNPSURDUSH SUPDORONRNJE IEACL. HDHEJE HJEAFF HKLIFI.”_

Undoubtedly, the one “3” at the beginning, it being the only number and all, is of great importance and equally undoubtedly, those words must have been scrambled together somehow – it is a staple my mother used in almost everyone of her codes and I must assume this is no exception to the rule.

Which leads to a fascinating amount of possible solutions, of course, as the letter contains an astounding 174 letters.

Either Mrs. Hughesbury is a genius at decoding or I must find a pattern, which I believe to have found.

_HCEIOS RVEIR HPEALC SNTEUS ROROMT IEACL HKLIFI_

The first thing I did was regarding onlyevery third word. Now, obviously they still don’t make a lot of sense, yet if one were to unscramble them, you’d receive the message “ _Choice River Chapel Sunset Tomorr Alice”_

You may have noticed that the last word “ _HKLIFI”_ is missing – I simply cannot make any sense of it, yet I suspect it may be an unfamiliar family name of sorts.

The rest of that message, however, is clear as the day. Some place at the river in, I assume, Whitechapel was chosen for a meeting point which commenced at Sunset, the day after the message had been delivered.

And a certain “Alice Fihkil? Lihkif?” would be present as well.

It’d be a great result, really, if it hadn’t seemed to be just a _tad_ to easy – you see, I am used to my mother making most things unnecessary challenging at times, not to mention the many abbreviations seemed off – there was no need for them, really.

Additionally, there is yet another message I found coded within the letter, by reading every third letter.

“ _Meet Perse at_ _Lara Pahel.”_

More strange names, yet a perfectly fine message, too – and there is no indication which one should be right. The first one seems hidden too hastily to hold the letters true meaning, yet the second one seems to be so void of any meaning.

The presence of at least one red herring leads me to the conclusion that neither of those two messages are what I am truly. supposed to be looking for. And that I have yet to uncover an entirely different message.

That, or either one of those two messages would indeed bring me a lead on my mother whereabouts – which is precisely why I just now handed Edith a list with name – all variations of that mysterious Alice’s last name.

With alternating first names, of course, as anything else would be suspicious. Now, I doubt Edith will tell me anything regardless, even if she were to recognize a name on that list, however I do hope to get a rise out of her.

It’d help me along greatly.

Sadly, I am to be disappointed, as Edith merely raised an eyebrow at me.

“Is this...supposed to some kind of joke?”, she asks, as she puts the sheet of paper down in front of me again.

“No. I was hoping you might know a name from that list – I suppose that could help me with my investigation.”

It is not a lie, though I purposefully did not specify which investigation I am talking about. Edith has been adamant about me not getting involved with whatever it is that my mother is doing and I do not wish to displease her again – not after our last parting was less than favourable.

“Hm. I have never heard Ada...”

I take note of Edith’s use of Mrs. Hughesbury’s first name – did she, perhaps, take part in Edith’s self-defence course at some point? Or are they close for some other reason?

“...speaking of these people either. Perhaps you are mistaken?”, Edithsays and I neatly fold the paper again, before dropping it into my bag.

Somewhere far away a clock strikes one o’clock and a glance at my teacup reveals it to be empty.

“It is getting late”, I remark. Edith nods along.

“It has been some time now, hasn’t it? Must you be off to somewhere else?”

“Yes. The Hughesbury’s?”

Edith smiles and I wonder whether I have missed something, as it is entirely too knowingly. Yet I do not find any other clue within her expression and decide to drop the thought.

It will bring me no good after all.

“Of course. Well, it has been nice, seeing you again, so soon. I did miss you after that first visit – perhaps you can drop by more often? I have yet to spy Sherlock – or any of Mycroft’s underlings – watching the shop.”

Her words are assuring and I promise to try and stop by tomorrow – yet I will refuse to abandon my dice completely.

Old habits die hard.

I get up, grabbing my bag and then the letter, when I feel Edith’s expression shift. I look up – and indeed, her expression is positively worried now as she silently observes me.

“I noticed that letter was sent by that same boy again”, she remarks. I frown.

“It...is. Yes. Why? Was there any trouble?”

I doubt it – those were two rather inconspicuous letters and Edith just said she had not seen anyone suspicious looking, yet my brother _is_ the famed Sherlock Holmes.

It isn’t what Edith was referring to, though.

“You’re more than just a pretty doll, Enola”, she explains, putting away the cups. I freeze at those words – but not for long.

“I know”. I respond, my voice slow and tentative. I do not like where this conversation is headed, if I am right with my assumptions. and it has yet to properly start.

Mayhaps it is best if I squash it before any further attempts are made.

“Though I fear I have to take my leave now . Have a good day, Edith.”

I grab the letter from the table and turn around. Perhaps I am being rude, but I feel quite uncomfortable and my mother once told me, if one feels uncomfortable in a situation, one has to change that – either by changing the situation itself, or simply by removing themselves from it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edith shake her head.

“He might think you refreshing and exciting now, Enola – but that will not last. It never does.”

“Have a good day, Edith.”

“… Have a good day, Enola.”

I leave the room, fleeing through the café until I have found myself outside, where I relish a deep breath of air.

Edith’s words should not have hit as hard as they did, I conclude. And anyway, it does not matter, as Tewkesbury and I are friends – pen pals, really - I remind myself.

It does not matter at all.

.o.O.o.

When I arrived at the Hughesbury’s home, I expected a lot – I expected to talk to Mrs. Hughesbury, to ask her whether, perhaps, I might continue investigating, as I have no intention to drop this case until I have seen it through.

I hoped to be able to search the other rooms as well – and I especially hoped to find more clues as to what could have transpired within these walls. Now, my mother once told me the best expectations once could have where none, as it would enable you to keep a clear mind and judge fairly – and it keeps you from being disappointed.

I should have listened to her advice, as I currently find myself begging a certain Anne – Anne White, as the maid was quick to correct me – to help me out.

Mrs. Hughesbury was afraid her husband might see me again. And she is deeply convinced that Scotland Yard will solve her case in no time.

“Why would I even help you?!”, said maid hisses as she pulls me away from the window’s view.

I suppose her reaction is fair – I did deceive her – though one must admit, my intentions were pure – and then suspected her of robbing her mistress’ jewellery.

But then again…

“Don’t you want this case to be solved?”

“Why, yes, of course...”

“Great. Because Inspector Lestrade won’t be the one to solve it.”

I hope my voice sounds convincing enough, though I fear it doesn’t, as Anne steps back and grimaces.

“Inspector Lestrade is an _inspector_ at _Scotland Yard_ and you are barely a young lady, who just so happens to be the daughter of questionable influence that my mistress seems to admire, for some reason or another.”

I ignore Anne’s blatant disregard for my mother – who is a great woman and no bad influence at all. Why, I’d argue society is a bad influence and my mother is quite the opposite. But such petty discussions won’t help me with my case.

“What makes you think you could solve this case faster than he can? Or that you could possibly solve this case at all?”

I suppose she’d have a point if it weren’t or certain individuals, living within this city, proving her wrong time and time again.

“My brother beats the police force all the time!”

“Your _brother_ is the famed detective Sherlock Holmes, which you are not!”

Now, that is just insulting.

“...which is why I advice you to leave at...”

“The first case I ever solved, I solved faster than Sherlock did”, I interrupt her. Finally I seem to have surprised her and for a moment she eyes me suspiciously, before asking:”Come again?”

“The first case I ever solved – the Case of the Missing Marquess – I solved faster than my brother, the _famed_ detective Sherlock Holmes, did. It was all over the papers, too.”

I do leave out the tidbit that Tewkesbury had been more willing to help me than my brother, but I must ask you to keep in mind I _did_ figure out who had tried to murder him.

Well, I figured out the motive, I got the person wrong, but, in opposition to my brother, I never had all that much time to properly investigate in the first place.

“The Case of the Missing Marquess? The one where his own grandmother tried to have him killed?”

“Yes. The very same.”

Now, Anne seems to be unsure of what to say next and I decide that _now_ is the right time to push her just that last bit to my side.

“Not to mention, do you really believe Inspector Lestrade has any interest in actually solving this case? They will put it down in no time and who else would be willing to investigate?”

Other private detectives, I am sure, especially considering Mrs. Hugehsbury is willing to pay quite a bit to have this matter solved, yet I believe she’d rather have me do it.

And I feel dirty, accepting the money without really having contributed anything.

“Well, alright then”, Anne finally concedes and I can’t help but smile – though I try not to look to triumphant.

“Every human is too prideful. Especially the ones that claim not to be”, my mother once said and growing up with Sherlock _and_ Mycroft as my brothers, I am inclined to agree.

But my worrying was for nothing, as Anne is too busy nervously glancing at the house’s windows, before pulling me even farther away from it.

“I will tell you everything I know, but _only_ today and you will leave me alone after that, understood?”, she then adds and I can’t nod quickly enough.

“ _Umble-Cum-Stumble_. You won’t see me again – until I have solved the case that is.”

Anne hums approvingly and I take out a sheet of paper, ready to take not of anything

“His full name’s Jimmy Foster...”

“As you already said”, I interrupt her, yet all she does is pause for a second, casting a sharp look at me.

“... _and_ I overheard Inspector Lestrade say he is a well-known member of the _family_. Has gotten into trouble plenty of time already, for petty crimes and some tavern-brawls. Inspector Lestrade said he found it strange the man supposedly tried to break and enter, though he promised to look into it. And that is all that I know of this matter and I now advice you to leave, lest I should call for the house’s master.”

She chuckles at that and leans against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“I heard them argue yesterday – Mr. Hughesbury got mad. Said Ada was undergoing a worrying change and called you a bad influence. Is it true your hiding from your brother?”

Her question surprises me, yet it does not catch me off-guard.

I expected the staff to know by now – gossip travels faster than apologies, my mother once said -and whilst this outcome is less than preferable, I will manage.

Mrs. Hughesbury does not know where I live. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft will find much use of her – though, taking this newest development into account, I suppose I shall have to stay away from Edith’s tea rooms for some time, lest Sherlock _does_ set up outside of them to catch me.

I do believe Sherlock is a man too busy for such silly antics, but god knows what Mycroft may be up to.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No.”

“Did Inspector Lestrade find anything? Something in the room, in the house? Were any rooms left unchecked?”

At that, Anne shrugs.

“He said he’ll come back in time – he has yet to inspect the majority of the house, though I believe his search will be fruitless. And tracks or other leads will have been cleaned away by now.”

I nod in agreement. Sadly, Anne is right. The house will be free of any and all tracks.

“Very well. I will be gone soon – just one last question, if I may?”

“Go ahead. Perhaps I will dignify that question with an answer.”

I suppose that is the best I can get.

“That man – Jimmy Foster – what does he look like?”

Anne’s eyes widen in surprise at that, which, in turn, I find quite surprising, as that question is the logical conclusion to this interrogation.

A name will be quite useless if I were to spot my one lead within London’s crowds.

“You’re really not dropping the case, are you?”, Anne asks, clearly amused:”Even though you just got paid?”

I frown of that. Of course I have – quite handsomely, too, at that, especially if one regards the results – _preliminary_ results – of my investigation.

So far. They’re just preliminary results, after all.

“No. I’d rather see this case all the way through – I doubt Inspector Lestrade will even come close to solving it.”

Perhaps I am being unfair to Inspector Lestrade, but he works for Mycroft and anyone working directly for Mycroft is a man I greatly dislike.

“Now, may I ask for a description of this fellow, Jimmy Foster? You seem to be somewhat acquainted with him.”

Expectantly I watch Anne who blinks a few times, before shaking her head.

“Of course. Sure. He has black hair, he-I think he had a scar in his left eyebrow, a small, pointed nose – he was quite good-looking, actually, though he usually had a black eye, or two – as I said, he apparently finds himself caught up in tavern brawls as a pastime – and...What are you doing?”

“Drawing him. Does this match the description?”

Anne steps closer. Eyes the picture.

“You draw?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, no. His-His noise looks more like – yes, more like that and his hair is quite short...Oh, and he has a _door-knocker_...”

It takes around ten minutes for me to get the picture right – yet I leave with a better idea of who to look for – and I am convinced finding Jimmy Foster will only help me solve this case.

* * *

_12 th of August 1884_

“Knowledge is power, my dear, which is why you should never stop learning”, my mother told me whenever I was sitting at out kitchen table, unwilling to solve today’s tasks.

“You never know which skills will come in handy at which point in time, which is why you should learn as much as possible, to be prepared for anything that may come your way. Do you understand?”

Of course I had understood – my mother’s words had always had their own way of making sense – yet it had not made me any more willing to finish my assignments and nor did I manage to learn everything there is to know – not a surprise, considering I am only 16 years old and have yet to life out most of my life.

Yet, I do wish I had mastered all aspects of life already, as right now, I seem to be desperately missing the skill of acting inconspicuous.

“HEY!”, a man exclaims as I roughly push him aside and I shout “Mind the grease!“ as I then narrowly dodge a couple walking my way. I evade to the left and duck underneath the outstretched arm of a newsman.

Jimmy Foster is doing quite the same a few yards in front of me and the distance, much to my dismay, is only increasing.

I cannot afford to lose him, so I will my legs to move faster and scurry around another corner – only to almost slam into yet _another_ person.

London truly holds too many people.

I narrowly dodge that group of people, whom are less than pleased by our near-collision and call some very nasty things after me, yet I do not have any ears for their words.

I cannot let Jimmy get away. I. Cannot.

I am stopped for a few precious seconds as a carriage rounds a corner and I stretch my neck, keeping Foster within my field of vision and the moment the carriage has passed I am running again, dodging and throwing excuses over my shoulder.

I wish people would stop and help for a second, keeping him from getting away, but I suppose that would only pose more questions, as I am but a simple girl and he is a man, who has not stolen from me, nor has he done me any other wrong.

If it weren’t for Mycroft’s threat hanging over me, life could be _so_ much easier – if the police were to show up they’d support my side, instead of dragging me away to my brother. But I will manage. I have managed just fine so far and I will continue to do so.

However, I do not manage to catch up to Jimmy Foster – and if my geography knowledge does not fool me, we should reach smaller alleys soon. Which would be a perfect time for Foster to slip away for good and I cannot allow that – yet we do not make it to the alleys at all.

The air is burning in my lungs. My legs are protesting with every step I take and I _know_ I am slowing down – as I doubt Forster is speeding up and our distance is ever increasing.

And then he turns another corner and although I try my very hardest to get to it as fast as I can, hoping to find yet another glimpse of him – he is gone.

He rounded another one already – the first one, it must have been – and I know I will not catch up to him anymore.

I stop in the middle of the street, starring at the place where he just had been, my arms clutching my side as I breathe in heavily.

I-I lost him.

I actually lost him.

“HEY! LADY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!”, someone shouts and I flinch, before turning around and finding myself facing a cab.

“My excuses”, I say, though it is barely a whisper, before I do get off the street and let traffic pass. Slumping against a wall, I allow myself to take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I have lost him. I have lost him to the swarming crowds of London’s streets. This man was the only promising lead I had – and it just slipped through my fingers, never to be seen again.

I should be disappointed. Yet I recall Anne’s earlier words and this whole affair is turned into a minor setback.

“ _His full name’s Jimmy Foster...” “As you already sa...” “..._ and _I overheard Inspector Lestrade say he is a well-known member of the_ family _. Has gotten into trouble plenty of time already, for petty crimes and some tavern-brawls. Inspector Lestrade said he found it strange the man supposedly tried to break and enter, though he promised to look into it. And_ that _is all that I know of this matter and I now advice you to leave, lest I should call for the house’s master.”_

Jimmy Foster was a known man to Scotland Yard.

So perhaps, he has yet to fully slip away after all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umble-cum-stumble: Thoroughly understood – though it was lower class, so Enola would probably not have used the term (but I decided to use it regardless, because I liked it)
> 
> Family: Criminal underworld
> 
> Door-knocker: A certain type of bear
> 
> Mind the Grease: Excuse me, please
> 
> -.-.-
> 
> It took me entirely too long to figure out when parliamentary sessions in Great Britain start/end – I ended up finding a site that detailed the recess of 2019-21 and decided to take that as my guide lines.
> 
> Anyhow. Other than that, I do not have a lot to say – next chapter will be a lot shorter though (Probably. Possibly) and it will also feature Sherlock! Because siblings are important!
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, if you did, please leave a comment and see you in two weeks!


	6. The unrobbed woman; File VI: Laws are fickle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being two week late – it was not my intention. Anyhow, I hope you’ll enjoy the chapter nonetheless – and only three more until the first case is done! (After which I will most likely take yet another break, to plan out the plot for case two).
> 
> Anyhow, see you at the end!

The Case of the Curious Letter

Chapter Six

-

_13 th -_ _17_ _th_ _of August 1884_

_Case I: The unrobbed woman  
_ _File VI: Laws are fickle_

* * *

If one thinks about it – and I must say that I have thought about it, quite thoroughly at that – the law – the way it is used in modern society – is a fickle and senseless thing. It is entirely dependent on the circumstances it finds itself in – and one might quite prefer a set of rules that was more dependent on laws given to us by nature and such and not a thing made up by humans, who are – as is generally agreed upon – prone to mistakes and – as I have learned myself – prone to being quite unreasonable as well.

To elucidate my point: a few years back slavery was legal, a practice which we now call barbaric – and with every right at that. And I am most certain a few years into the future and plenty of rules we abide by today – both, of societal norm and lawful practices – we shall ridicule, yes, view as signs of an uncivilised society that, no doubt, must have been quite a terrible time to live in.

Additionally, I am quite certain, too, that a few years into the future of said future, people will be saying quite the same things about my own future and so will their grandchildren and so on, all the way down the line, following into eternity.

(I am also most certain these grandchildren grandparents will, no doubt, make a huge deal out of their descendants foolishness and loose morals.)

But time is not the only variable one has to take into account when judging a law: Indeed, the society we live in plays quite the role as well – we may enjoy a steak or two here in England, but most certainly such acts would be frowned upon in faraway India and the way we take in our tea is a far cry from the – from what I have heard – gorgeous and intricate ceremony surrounding tea in the far east.

And, at last, one must take into consideration the circumstances under which a crime has been committed, into account, too. We may all agree upon stealing being a sin, yet woiuld anyone of us dare chastise a man trying to feed his family turning to crime?

Those thoughts, of course, I have not discovered on my own. I am convinced with time and knowledge I would have uncovered these truths myself, yet I must admit it was none other than my brother Mycroft who first enlightened me.

Well. Not exactly me. My mother and he had had a heated argument and I was being quite the naughty girl for listening in, but I was bored and I had finished my reading already and anyway, when I asked my mother about it, later of course, as I dared not to barge into the study, she was quite alright with it.

In fact, she praised me for my skills in sneaking around.

I am getting off-track.

After asking my mother she told me that, for once, Mycroft was right and whilst I must say I will most likely never cherish a single thing my eldest brother accomplishes, I must cherish this lesson he has, unknowingly – and most certainly unwillingly, as every woman aware of these facts would immediately recognize arguments such as “it is what society expects you to do” are no arguments at all and would therefore refuse to participate in such oppressive games – gifted me with.

Perhaps, if I had simply waited, my mother would have told me anyway and I would not be burdened with this knowledge that Mycroft _can_ be useful. But alas, time has passed and things have happened and there isn’t a whole lot we can do about it.

Now, you may be wondering why I am standing here, philosophing about law and order, as you may remember that I have still quite a lot to do, however, all I am trying to say is that breaking into Scotland Yard to extract a file on a certain fellow named “Jimmy Foster” is, while most likely breaking a law or two, in fact _not_ a bad deed.

As I have mentioned earlier, every law operates under three variables: the time it is placed in, the place and the circumstances. Now, if it were any other time - a more modern time, a fairer time, I am most certain I would not have to fear my brother shipping me off to some finishing school to mold me into a mannequin of his design, nor would I be unable to work as a private investigator. As a matter of fact, I would most likely be able to find out this information without having to sneak in, therefore this law should not apply at this very moment.

As for place, while I myself am currently not a ware of any place in the world where such things should be legal, I am sure, if one were more well-versed in such things as geography as I currently am, that this too, would be a fully ridiculous law to follow.

And lastly, if one were to take circumstances into consideration: I find myself in circumstances in which I do not have much of a choice and anyway, if it weren’t for Mycroft and Sherlock none of this would be a problem at all!

Therefore: I am not a bad person. I am not a criminal.

And breaking into Scotland Yard is the right thing to do.

.o.O.o.

_14 th of August 1884_

As it turns out, sneaking into Scotland Yard is much more difficult than it is sneaking into a, fairly unsupervised, private household, I mentally remark as I take yet another corner.

I should have expected as much, yet I did not and I curse my own oversight – I should have planed ahead more – and perhaps I would not be chased by a bobby down the streets of London for suspicious behaviour.

I turn around another corner, almost run straight into a woman holding onto her groceries and narrowly dodge the child accompanying her – and by that knock a man’s _donkey’s breakfast_ from his head.

But – although the man is now furiously screaming at me – I dodged the group of people. And the bobby does not.

After rounding another corner, I suppose I am in need for a disguise.

.o.

_15 th of August 1884_

As I have learned yesterday already: Scotland Yard is a busy place. There is rustling and bustling and quite a long line of people patiently awaiting their turn. It is loud and hectic and not at all a pleasant place – yet I have conceived the perfect plan, which requires me to be here. And to wait in line, for my turn.

During my first attempt yesterday – which was quite silly, really, as I simply tried to walk in, pretending I had business there, hoping no one would question me – I did notice one peculiarity: If one were to take too long describing the crime they have been subjected to, they are occasionally asked to move into the back – especially if there is a description of the _prig,_ or whatever criminal it is that committed a _capper,_ to be given.

Now, obviously neither has someone ever successfully stolen anything from me, nor do I plan on ever letting that happen – but faking my own little crime shan’t be too difficult, don’t you think? There are plenty of petty crimes – _buzzing_ and such – one can report, yet that are certain to never be solved. And whilst Scotland Yard most likely will dutifully archive such a crime, they are certain not to pay any heed to it.

“Now, Miss Morgan – you are most certain you have gotten quite a good look at that fellow? You are sure it must have been him?”

“I am most certain. Luckily, there was light in that alley, or that scoundrel would have gotten away!”

The officer regards me for a few seconds.

I bat my eyelashes.

He looks down at his report once more.

“So you’ve been attacked while walking home in-in an unnamed alley close to Vaughan Way?”

“That is quite right. It was late evening, too, but not too late – the sun had yet to set.”

“And your bag was taken?”

“Yes.”

The officer scribbles down more notes, before looking up again, wearing a winning smile that promises bad news.

Which I did not expect, as all I really want is to lead me into the back, where I will describe some non-existent boy and after which I will be free to wander Scotland Yard – and if I were to get caught, I might just pretend to be lost. I am dressed as a lady after all. In a voluminous gown – a bid dated, but that was to be expected considering it was bought second-hand – and adorned with some jewellery that was much cheaper than it looks.

“Miss Morgan – I am most disappointed to tell you, however it will be near impossible for us to retrieve a simple bag, of which there will be da dozen, no doubt, and...”

I try not to let my disappoint show as my thoughts are going a mile a minute – this is not at all what I had wanted and I had not planned for this, yet I must find a way to...

“I carried an expensive watch!”

My mouth caught on to the situation faster than my thoughts do and I regret my sudden action. I doubt my sudden interuption has made a very good impression – yet I cannot let myself be sent away.

Not yet. Not until I have gained more information on this Jimmy Foster.

Perhaps I should be thankful for my mouth’s sudden takeover.

“I carried an expensive watch with me. It was my mother’s. My late mother’s. A-A family heirloom and I’d quite like it back.”

Someone coughs behind me and the officer eyes me suspiciously, before shrugging.

“Very well, Miss Morgan. It might have been _christened_ already – however, if you were to give us a precise description of watch and _dipper_ , we might be able to find it. If you were to follow me into the back?”

“Of course, officer. My sincerest thanks!”

I suppose I shall count myself lucky I am dressed the way I am – I am most certain most everyone would have been turned away, had they not looked rich enough.

.o.

There is a clock ticking somewhere in this room and it is positively driving me crazy as I wait for the man sitting in front of me, drawing away at a piece of paper, to finish.

I must admit, his drawing is perfectly splendid, yet I do find myself rather bored and anxious – it took me entirely too long to describe that watch that was supposedly stolen and it took me even longer to come up with a description that is neither too detailed nor too vague, fitting that made-up dipper. I’d rather not blame any poor soul for a crime that has never been committed.

The officer in front of me puts away his charcoal for a few moments and eyes me, before returning to his drawing – which is almost finished, too.

I shall rejoice once I am able to leave this stuffy cabinet and proceed with my investigation. Or rather, my gathering of information, as there is not much more to find at Scotland Yard than those files.

“Miss Morgan, If I may be so bold..?”, he asks absent-mindedly and I smile politely.

I have yet to keep up the charade.

“Of course. Anything.”

“What were you doing in that alley, if I may ask? All alone? Surely your family ought to worry? And in Chapel nonetheless that is!”

The officer seems to be genuinely worried and I might be appreciative for his concern, if it were not for the fact that I am most certain I’d be more capable of anything being thrown my way than he is.

Well, I am pretending to be robbed.

Perhaps, just this once, they have a point.

“My father was accompanying me”, I say:”He tried to run after that thief, too, but he’s in old age – it was futile, really.”

I smile once more and my face’s muscles start to hurt. I do wonder how some ladies keep up their expressions – I remember Miss Harrison’s words all too well, telling me to be smiling at any time of the day, as a man has too many trouble already than to be concerned with the minor squabbles a woman has.

It must be exhausting. It truly must.

“Your father?”

“Yes, exactly. He’s home right now, sick and all – you know how they get. Luckily, Scotland Yard isn’t too far from where I live.”

I do not smile yet another time, however I must admit, this is mostly because I have not yet _stopped_ smiling.

“Very well. Now, then, Miss Morgan, that shall be all – if you are to leave an address with me, I will make sure a message is delivered to your home once the investigation has born fruits. But may I request you take one last look at the picture drawn? Does the boy look like you remember?”

He holds up the piece of paper – and it is a fine drawing indeed. I inspect it thoroughly – invoking the illusion of looking for any faults, when, really, I am trying to memorize each line and curve – mayhaps it could help me improve my very own drawing skills as well.

The officer clears his throat. I hear the clock’s ticking once more.

“Everything’s alright. It is quite a beautiful drawing, too!”

Flattery has gotten many a person out of an awkward situation.

“I couldn’t help but admire it!”, I then add.

Flattery has gotten many a person out of an awkward situation and so has being honest. And, indeed, the officer does smile and politely thanks me for the compliment.

“Now, then, my most sincerest thanks for your cooperation, Miss Morgan. Though I’d hate to take up anymore of your time – Shall we?”

Then the officer gets up. And I, now, realize with horror that I may have wasted half an hour of my life for nothing.

“Oh! Oh – you needn’t accompany me! I shall be able to leave all on my own.”

The officer has the audacity to laugh at that and I must admit – I feel quite stupid.

“Nonsense, Miss Morgan! We might not want you to get lost, of course”, he remarks and smiles sillyly and I try to contain the snorting laughter threatening to escape my mouth.

Of course he would. I should have expected this outcome – I really should.

“How very considerate.”

I force myself to smile thankfully (again!) as the officer gets up, gesturing for me to do the same.

“How very, very considerate. I must admit, I might have gotten lost indeed – as the building is built so confusingly!”

.O.

_17 th of August 1884_

It is a testament to the value of cleverness and resourcefulness that, what gets me into Scotland Yard, is no ruse of any kind. Not a girl simply strolling in and pretending to be needed – which had gotten me chased out in the first case – and neither a time-consuming charade in which I pretend to be some upper-class lady.

No, what gets me into Scotland Yard are silent footsteps, a bit of planning and, well, some agility.

Though, it might not have worked, had I not been here two days ago.

“Good morning, officer!”, I say cheerfully as I enter the still empty room.

Scotland Yard opens at point 7 o’clock. I had arrived half an hour earlier, fearing there might be a line – but there hadn’t.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have visited on a Saturday two days ago.

“Good morning”, said officer replies and eyes me suspiciously. I do not blame him, as I am currently dressed as a young boy in dirty clothes. When I tried to find another way of breaking into Scotland Yard that did not require me to scale any walls in the middle of the night, I realized I had already crafted the perfect plan without noticing.

Which requires me to be dressed like a poor boy. And to squint when it comes to hair colours – yet, I do believe one could easily confuse brown with black in the light of a setting sun.

I sincerely hope it will work this time. Perhaps Inspector Lestrade is indeed putting more effort into this case than I expect him to – and I simply cannot have him solve it first.

“Found this bag”, I say, holding up said bag. The officer seems to be unimpressed.

“There’s a watch in it, too. Looks expensive. Might there be a reward for finding it?”

I blink at him from innocent eyes – and just as I had expected, the word “watch” grabs his attention.

“A watch you say?”

“Yeah.”

“Might I have a look at that watch?”

It is now that I defensively snatch my arm back, pressing the bag protectively against my chest. You see – my rather vague description of that supposed boy that robbed me did come quite close to what I look like – or rather, it is close enough to out me under scrutiny by anyone, which is all I want, really.

And a young boy stealing things to exchange them for a reward does not sound all that far-fetched now, does it?

“Reward first”, I say:”I’ll hand that bag over later.”

I try to put as much suspicion into my posture as possible and it seems to work – as that officer leans back, finally taking a closer look at me.

“Very well”, he ends up saying:”Though I am unsure whether any reward has been placed at all – if you were to wait for a few minutes, I could check and come back later..?”

“With that reward?”

The officer lets out a sigh, seemingly annoyed – but the more annoyed he is, the less attention he will be paying.

Hopefully.

“I’d have to check to see if there is any, but yes. With that reward.”

The officer smiles, though it looks more akin to him baring his teeth, as the smile barely conceals his distaste at my very existence.

I really am lucky I chose to dress as a lady that day.

“Alright then”, I say:”I’ll wait. But don’t take too long!”

I relax my posture just the slightest bit, yet I cross my arms over my chest in a sign of distrust. The officer seems to buy it, too. With a nod he turns and then leaves, no doubt to check up on that drawing that was made.

I wait for a few seconds, just until he has left my field of vision. Just to dash in after him, dropping the bag in the process – it was made from scraps anyway, scraps that I had hastily sown together yesterday.

And just as I am dropping the bag and making a run for the inner workings of Scotland Yard, I hear the ringing of a bell – closely followed by an alarmed “HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?”

.O.

There are steps and voices and curses – many of which I have never heard before – as I sneak through the building, trying my very hardest to stay hidden.

I could curse my luck for having been found once more – yet it is too late to back down now. I am inside and the most I can do is try to sneak out of a room once I finally found those files – and while not much has been going my way lately, it does not take me terribly long to find the archives I’ve been looking for all along.

Undetected, I slip in and find myself in an unsurprisingly well-cared for room. It may be a bit dusty, but I can already spot a broom in a faraway corner and neither are there any mouldering racks nor does the dust make me want to sneeze.

Quickly, I make my way through the racks, looking for order, a system, all the time amazed by the sheer amount of information Scotland Yard has already managed to amass. The investigation unit has not been established terribly long ago, yet there are files upon files to be found here.

I do wish that, eventually, I might be able to explore without being hastened by the distant shouting – I suppose no one would expect a suspected thief – a child no less! – to hide away in the archives – as they are on the second floor and therefore make for a terrible exit.

I must hurry.

My mother used to tell me that keeping order is a necessary skill for anyone to have, as there is nothing worse than leaving someone else waiting due to a chaotic room.

I must admit, I am glad Scotland Yard seems to be of the same opinion, as their archives are sorted in alphabetical order – it takes me some time to finally realize there are letter scribbled onto each shelve, yet I am glad there are.

The archives are still deserted, too - which makes my tasks of finding the files even easier, as I do not need to hide while searching the place.

Casting one last suspicious look at entrance – and only exit, as I notice nervously – I duck into the aisles marking all names starting with an “F” - I do hope the suspects are listed by their last name, though I suppose going by their first would be weird and rather inconvenient.

Soon enough, I find myself in front of a shelve labelled “Fo” - and it is filled to the brink. I expected nothing else, seeing as Foster is an annoyingly common name, yet I waste no time looking for the right name.

It does not take too long.

The officers downstairs have still to realize I have escaped upwards.

The files I have been looking are in a perfectly splendid condition and without hesitation, I pull it from the shelves and open the folder.

_Jimmy Foster_

There is a small photograph attached to it, which is helpful, as I quickly realize this is not the only Jimmy Foster and, indeed, it takes me two more files to find the man I am looking for.

But when I do, I do.

The files does not list a place of residence – naturally – however they _do_ list an assortment of petty crimes such as buzzing and some fights he has been involved with. Nothing major – though he was tried for murder once apparently.

I can’t help but shiver at the thought that I am currently willingly going after a murdered, but then again, this hasn’t been the first time either and it _is_ only my second case.

And nothing has been proven.

In dubio pro reo.

Especially one _Slap-Bang Job_ catches my eye – the drinking dog - as it is listed more than any other establishment. Mister Foster seems to have been involved a great many tavern brawls. If I am to be lucky, I might catch him there – and then be able to follow him home. Or, perhaps, I can just discreetly question him while he’s at the tavern – they do same alcohol speaks nothing but the truth, after all.

Content with what I have found, I shove the files back into the shelf – and then freeze.

The voice came closer. I start up as I hear them get closer – and immediately my eyes rush for the door that has yet to be blocked – but once it is, there is no way of escape left for me.

Immediately, I slam the file into the shelve, covering the last bit of distance, ensuring nothing sticks out. If I do manage to escape Scotland Yard, I am most certain none other than my brother will be asked for council – and I’d rather not have the best detective of all of London breathe down my neck.

My mother once told me that, if one were to commit to secrecy, one must cover all their tracks as to not leave a single way to be found out.

She had told me after I had tried to conceal that I had taken an extra piece of cake.

I smile bitterly as I remember she took her own advice to heart, as it seems – yet I shake that bitterness of quickly.

Mother had every reason to be secretive. Sherlock Holmes is her son after all and Mycroft does hold considerable sway within the government. And anyway, now is no time for such trivial thoughts. I must leave. At once – or risk getting captured.

I get up at once, turning to face the door – however, I can’t help but notice on particular, little detail.

The dust.

There isn’t a whole lot of it – the archives are indeed well cared for – yet I fear someone might notice the way some has been wiped.

My head snaps to the door once more. The voice are coming closer. Yet – no. I can’t leave like that.

Having my mind made up, I – hastily – start wiping away more dust.

Scotland Yard might believe I am a simple dipper, yet Sherlock will not be fooled as easily. If he were to have the slightest of suspicions that anyone might have broken into Scotland Yard for any other reason other than a small reward, he is sure to check every room – and to order anyone out as to not disturb the crime scene.

The wiping takes time. More than I’d like to – and then it takes entirely _too_ long.

The officer notices me before I notice him and I am blaming this mishap entirely on my distraction.

“HEY! YOU!”, the man shouts and I startle once more – before backing away.

I am satisfied with all the dust that has been wiped – yet I have been found out, too – and I canot let Inspector Lestrade find me.

I _cannot_.

“Good morning, officer? Quite the day, isn’t it?”, I ask nervously, as I back away more and more – and the officer keeps getting closer.

And then, worst of all, he calls for backup, fully ignoring my response.

I do not blame him.

As more and more officers fill into the room, I back away more and more, panic surging through my veins, no matter how much I try to suppress it.

“Fear will only always cloud your judgment, Enola – and keeping a clear head at any time is the most important trait anyone could posses. Keep that in mind, will you?”

My mother’s words ring in my ears – and I’d like to agree with her, yet I can’t help but wonder whether she has ever been accosted by all of Scotland Yard.

Without a place to go. Even if I were to make a run for it and managed to evade being captured by any of the officers, I am most certain the entire headquarters have been alarmed already – there is sure to be someone standing at the exit anyway.

I glance sideways. This does leave me with only one option, really. One I hadn’t considered – it is the second floor, after all – however if Tewkesbury managed to escape across London’s rooftops all those months ago, then so can I.

I back away some more and the officers come closer and closer – and then, they part like the red sea.

Revealing none other than Inspector Lestrade.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, he fails to recognize me, however I believe that has become quite the habit of anyone close to me that I would not consider a friend.

It is just a tad bit less insulting than when my own brothers didn’t recognize me though.

“There you are, boy. You have caused quite the commotion already”, he say, holding up the bag – before tossing it in front of me.

“Wanted to get that reward without handing over anything, didn’t you? Thought we’d let a little thief like you just get away with his silly little ploy? Now, where’s the watch?”

I glance at the empty bag. Well, that is the conclusion I had wanted to arrive at – a pocket thief who had hoped for an extra reward after already getting the watch and the scramming oce he feared he had been found out – yet I had not expected for them to actually catch up to me.

This puts me in quite the pickle.

I wonder if I had gotten any farther if I had pretended to be Sherlock’s assistant once more – though that already didn’t work out last time, did it?

“Where’s the watch, boy”; Inspector Lestrade snarls and comes even closer – yet, I do not plan on sticking around any longer. Instead, I turn and jump onto the windowsill. The fall down is higher than expected and there is no way I’ll be able to make it all across the alley – I’d hardly be able to make that jump if I were to take a running jump – however there are enough decoration to use to clim down – or up if someone might notice.

And there is yet another windowsill down below I might fall onto to give me more time to plan y escape route.

I grin. And, just as I am to jump across the narrow alley, I turn around one last time, wink and shout:” _Olive oil.”_

It does knock my cap from my face, but really, it was worth it, seeing the expression of confusion and shock on Inspector Lestrade’s face.

.o.O.o.

It was a splendid day, Sherlock found, as he made his way down to Scotland Yard. He had solved a case today and whilst it had been quite interesting – and a tad more challenging than most, as the murder had faked his own death several years ago – he Sherlock had despised the client that had brought it to him.

Mister Barrow had been loud and annoyingly obnoxious, with his constant tries to actively participate in the investigation and he could not wait to rid himself of him.

Oh, the joys of being a private investigator. But regardless. He had asked Doctor Watson to calm this newest client while he was busy at Scotland Yard – he had been summoned by Lestrade himself and the way he had looked, the Inspector was quite annoyed they had needed to call on his help at all.

But it was such a ridiculous case!

“Let me summarize: A boy of some sort-” “A girl, Mister Holmes. A girl that posed as a boy for god knows what reason.” “Well, a _girl_ then – a supposed dipper – broke into Scotland Yard, searched the archives - “

“Searched? Mister Sherlock, it seems you are jumping to conclusions, all we know is that someone was here. We have yet to determine _why_ exactly anyone came – unless you have some convoluted answer to that question already?”

Lestrade was chuckling at that and a few other senior officers joined in, though their voices were sounding a tad more nervous than Lestrade’s did.

Sherlock didn’t pay them much attention.

“The dust”, he said, as he walked around the room, eyeing each shelve attentively.

“Some shelves have a thin layer of dust on them – it must have settled over night – but that layer is missing at other places – We shall count ourselves lucky the break-in occurred early this morning, as otherwise the tracks would most likely have been disappeared during the day.”

Lestrade glanced at his colleagues. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Dust?”

“Dust.”

Sherlock stepped closer to one of the shelves and put it under some intense scrutiny, before stepping back again and starting to search the room once more, murmuring something to himself.

“Dust. Mister Holmes, with all due respect, but _dust_ is not an...”

“With _all due respect_ , Inspector Lestrade, dust _is_ the answer. It is the answer quite obviously. Someone broke into this room, pulled out one of your files, noticed the dust’s disturbance – which speaks highly of their skills – worried someone might notice said disturbance and hence, wiped off some other dust as well to cover their tracks and – most importantly – to cover up just _which_ file they had been looking for. Now, does _that_ answer your question, Inspector Lestrade or must I explain it again?”

He knelt down now, inspecting the lower shelves, too.

The angle was different then all the other, meaning the intruder must have leant down – which was to be expected from the description given. Of the many shelves, there were only a few that were not on the third level – five to be exact – and dust on the lower levels had been wiped quite hastily.

The top of the files were still lightly dusty. Most of the wiped shelves were in a somewhat circular pattern, only a few where located at other places – none of the shelves close to the window had been wiped.

Sherlock smirked.

“The intruder must have been in quite the haste, as they forgot one crucial detail...”

He started walking the aisles once more and, begrudgingly intrigued now, Inspector Lestrade followed him.

“Is there a pattern to the “wiping” that we are expected to have noticed?”, he asked, searching the shelves himself – to no avail and just as he was about to remark something again, Sherlock Holmes stopped, without warning, and, without hesitation, reached for one of the folders.

“And this is the right file because..?”

Sherlock tapped the top.

“No dust?”

“No dust. Whoever broke in forgot to wipe the files’ upper half...”

Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper – his conscious already deeply buried within his own thoughts.

He glances at the cap he had been given. Used wool – mist have been second-hand or been in a lot of use – either it had been bought used – meaning this had been a plan and someone had disguised herself to fool the police – a girl that might be recognized by said police – or the girl had brothers – poor family then and perhaps normals clothes? - meaning she must be a liberal – perhaps her mother is part of the suffragette movement? - there was a brown, long hair attached to it – the description giving by that other girl had said black – it could have been a mix up – perhaps she had looked into the sun? - another girl – a plan? - the cap is old fashion – no way that girl was upper class – the bag was self-made, but badly – did she not know how to sow? - quite unusual for a girl – the other girl that had supposedly been robbed had had long brown hair – a set-up? - someone broke into the archives to find this specific file – a set-up then – a plan to get the file.

But why?

“Inspector Lestrade, this man, this “Jimmy Foster” - does it ring any bells? Could you, mayhaps, ask your colleagues?”

“Oh, yes, of course, let me have a look at it...”

Sherlock didn’t give Lestrade much time, instead choosing to simply shove the file into the waiting hands as he roamed closer to the window and inspected it.

The girl hadn’t crouched – meaning she couldn’t be taller than this window – meaning she was most likely a teenager already or older – she had mocked the police force – maybe a grudge? - she had not been afraid to jump – she must have landed on the windowsill below – he'd have to check the windowsill below – she must have used the decoration to climb somewhere else after – he should check that route himself – he should check the alley – maybe allies?

“Mister Sherlock, I must admit, this Jimmy Foster – I quite now him myself.”

Sherlock frowned. What?

“What?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyeing Lestrade – who was still holding the file.

“Yes. I was asked to investigate a private house – the man’s wife claimed someone has broken into her room, though I suppose she is merely imagining these things. And anyway. The man supposedly had been slinking around the house for some time. I have caught sight of him only once, after having had someone draw up a picture – from descriptions of the staff, of course.”

Inspector Lestrade looked quite satisfied with what he had found out, as he shoved the file back where it belonged, yet Sherlock did not pay hi much attention.

Someone had planed a break-in into Scotland Yard – that girl, to be more precise, with brown hair and a knack for disguising herself – not afraid to play the part of a boy either.

“Were there any other suspicious incidents the past few days?”

“Yes. Three days ago. A girl tried to sneak into-...”

“A girl?”

“Yes.”

“With brown hair?”

Now, Inspector Lestrade shifted nervously, before chuckling:"Well. Yes. Most people tend to have brown hair. It is quite a common colour.”

Once again, Sherlock decided not to pay too much attention. Instead, with fast paces, he made his way towards the shelf holding those files once more.

A brown-haired girl had broken into Scotland Yard, meticulously planing it, dressed in various clothes, just to retrieve a file – not steal! She had read it and then left the file where it belonged, all the while trying to wipe away any tracks left – on a suspect in a case that heavily involved a woman’s well-being who was most likely to be deemed crazy by any man.

“Enola...”, Sherlock murmured. In a – a rarity, really – quite spontaneous moment of decisiveness – not that him being decisive itself was a rarity, in fact, he’d argue it was quite common to his character, as shown by his countless deductional feats – he was a country-wide known detective after all and he had not gotten there by not having any confidence in his own skills – of which he owned a great many deal, as most people would agree – Sherlock took out the file once more, opening it.

“Sir?”

He was sure it had been this file that his sister had looked for and from the way the pages looked – the ever so slightly space between those two that he had noticed straight away and the dust pattern – Enola may have tried her best to wipe her tracks, but she should have known he’d be called onto to help investigate – though he had to give it to her that she had thought about covering her tracks at all – he was quite surprised she had gotten anywhere near Scotland yard – he wondered if her disguise would lead him to finding her? - it must have been this man she had looked up.

Sherlock frowned.

“But why does Enola want to find Jimmy Foster?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donkey’s breakfast: A Londoner term for a straw hat
> 
> Prig: thief, to steal
> 
> Capper: Criminal act, device or dodge
> 
> Buzzing: pickpocketing
> 
> to christen: to remove identifying marks from a watch 
> 
> Olive Oil: English pronunciation of “Au revoir”
> 
> Dipper: pickpocket
> 
> According to a google search, photographs were really, really cheap in the late 19th century (around 92 cents today, per photograph) and quite easily made too (apparently taking them only took five minutes).
> 
> I found a whole lot less information on whether or not Scotland Yard had archives at that point – the first criminal investigation department was opened in 1878, however, so I decided to just roll with it.
> 
> Anyway. i hope you enjoyed this chapter - and see you next time (hopefully for our regularly scheduled bi-weekly updates!)


	7. The unrobbed woman; File VII: The Drunken Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for me, because I managed to be on time again – anyhow, I hope you’ll enjoy this chapter and see you at the end ^^

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter Seven

-

_19 th \- 23th of August 1884_

_Case I: The unrobbed woman  
File VII: The Drunken Dog_

* * *

“Life – Life, Enola, requires sacrifice. For each step you take, you must pay a price. It may come as a receipt, it may come as inconvenience, but no matter the circumstances – life will always collect it dues.”

My mother was, _is,_ a wise woman. She is clever and headstrong and experienced and so very, very caring and yet, that lesson was taught me harshly. Those words were spoken without any sympathy – without that glimmer of love – and sometimes mirth – I was so used to. Whenever I think of it, I think of tears and anger and resentment.

I suppose, life does indeed, always collect its taxes owned – and sometimes, in rather unpleasant ways.

But tit is only natural for life to do so, too. All we do, all we have, we owe to life. It is our story’s backdrop, the scenery we are confined to. Without having be born, we would be unable to feel anything at all – and for that we owe.

Now, the reason why I am telling you this, is to put my mother’s wise words into context. You see, I once fell, quite badly, down the stairs. Mother wasn’t home and so, I cried for hours upon hours until she returned and scolded me – to my surprise and – and my embarrassment.

I had made the mistake of complaining life was unfair – because I had fallen and she hadn’t been home and anyway, that day had been nothing but troublesome to me. I had expected my mother to hug me, to soothe my pain – yet that was not quite what happened.

“Life isn’t unfair, Enola”, she had snapped and thinking about it now, I suspect she might have had a terrible day as well.

”Life merely is. You have had luck and now you’ve had _cold_ _coffee_ – you better be thankful for all the privilege and happiness you have been provided with so far – and now do stop your crying. I am sure it hurts terribly, but not once do I want you to blame it on the unfairness of life.”

I recall storming out of the room after my pain had been soothed, hot-headed that I was.

It was only years later that I took note of the wisdom those words held. Wisdom they held most certainly because they had been (must have been) influenced by the Indian concept of “karma” - which my mother taught me about later in life – I must have been twelve or so – which is intriguing all on its own already.

Now that I have explained this, you might want to know why and the rather simplistic answer to that is seen in my ankle, which is now red and swollen. It has been for the past two days – just after I dared the stunt of jumping from a window.

Naturally, you may be wondering whether my exit plan was sane – and I assure you, it was. There was another windowsill I jumped to and while I _did_ almost fall of, I caught myself just in time to climb down.

However, I did not land easily. And the subsequent chase did not help matters at all. I do wish it were winter that I could cool said ankle with ice, yet such dreams are foolish and entirely useless to me, as it is, indeed, not winter at all – quite the opposite, as the sun is burning down upon London’s roofs as heavily as it always does – and anyway, I do not have any time to waste on injured ankles. I must find this Foster fellow and I cannot afford to stall any longer.

I have yet to find out _what_ crime exactly has been committed at all – not an easy feat.

I sincerely hope the lead I have found will be of any use – as I am uncertain as to what to do if, this, too, fails.

Which is yet another reason as to why I must bear this pain and seek out _“The drinking dog”_.

Time is of the essence.

.o.O.o.

_20 th of August_

In all honesty, I do not expect my first disguise to work. In fact, I wish for the exact opposite to happen. I have learned my lesson already – I will not find success if I am not properly prepared and I do not wish to chase away Jimmy a second time. Therefore, I dress in inconspicuous clothes – a hastily and ill-matched dress I have produced by re-using a well-made, but cheap clothes. It does not fit me and the fabric scratches terribly, yet I am starting to feel the need to budget myself and this skirt and dress were what I had available still.

Not once in my life would I have guessed for _clothes_ to be my biggest spending point. Books, maybe. Paper perhaps. But not clothes.

I may have to learn how to sow after all.

I go unnoticed by most as I make my way through the streets of Whitechapel – perhaps the most prominent thing is the time at which I am out and about – most people working hard to feed their families.

Indeed, it is not yet deep in the night – it is just past noon, in fact – but I have chosen this time with reason.

I am entirely unprepared to find Jimmy just now. My foot is hurting terribly and I hope it might get better with the passage of time and I hope I will find more ways to gather my clues if I come early today.

And so it comes that I stroll into a – surprisingly already rather crowded – _Slap-Bang Job_.

My suspect is nowhere to be seen.

Up to now, everything is working just like planned.

With a heavy sigh I sit down at the front and order – regretting my course of action the moment I take a first sip – and grimace.

Never before have I drunken deer. I suppose this might turn into quite the long night.

xxx

“ _Street layouts? What are you_ talking _about?” “Oh, I am simply interested in...” “Gal, you soundin’ like an ol’_ blue bottle – _and we don like your kind aroun’ here.”_

xxx

“ _Back entrances?” “Yes. Back entrances.” “What do you care about back entrances! You a new waitress?”_

xxx

“ _Maybe. Maybe I know him. Why do you want to know?” “I’m looking for him, you see, I...” “Wha? You a_ pig _?!” “What? No!” “Well, I ain’t telling you nothin! And now get lost! I know guys!”_

xxx

“ _Back entrances?” “Yes. Do – ugh – do you know any?” “Hohoho, you’ve had quite the drink, havn you? Back there’s one – needed it when a friend of mine came around?” “Friend?” “..._ _Yes. “Friend”. You must be new – May I invite you to sit down with me? Have a drink together?” “Oh, thank you, but I must be off. However, I am rather grateful for your generous offer.”_ _“Very well. But do be careful! There’s bad folk loungin around!”_

xxx

“ _Where most my pa...rons are from?” “That’s what I-ugh-what I-I asked.” “_ _Ha! ...y you wanna kn..?” “Go-Got Bus-Bussss-Busin...” “Bussiness? Aren't you – maybe you should hea… home?”_

xxx

“ _Ji..y Fo…? Of ...ourse! Owes ….. mon…!” “Mo – ugh – ney?” “A ...bunch! Too! ...ow h…?” “No-no qu-qui-quite.”_

xxx

“ _... dear, you look po...ively .... …. you not want …. lay ….? Retr...at ...ome? It’s ...ttin ….!”_

“ _No-No, I-I’m – ugh – I’m fine. I-I need… - - I need to...Do you-Do you know s’meone...Jimme – hi – Jimme,_ Jimmy! Jimmy Fo...”

“ _Oh,_ _da..._ _, y...’ve b...n ...ki... a….d for …. all ev..n…. a….”_

“ _I-I have to...”_

“ _..., wh..._ _e..._ _...app…., it's ... ...th it. ...ell you ..., ... shift is e….g. …. …. you ...om..., ...fe.”_

“ _Can’t-”_

“ _Sw…...art, ….. not w...th it.”_

“ _...live too-too far away.”_

“…… _.. I h….e …. be…. …. of l...te night w….s….”_

“ _But-too-that too daner-dager-dangero-o-ous.”_

“ _Then why don’t you stay here?”_

.O.

_21 th of August_

I awake with a headache, the next morning. It’s a soft pounding in the back of my head. My back hurts and I am reminded of my very first days in London, when I stayed in the rather run down lodging house...

Lodging house.

I rip my eyes open – and groan, once the light hits them.

This is an absolutely _terrible_ feeling.

“Careful, now. You rather _crooked the elbow_ yesterday, dear. And judging from the way you look, this might just have been the first time you’ve ever drank anything.”

I open my eyes once more – slower now – and eye a woman in front of me. I faintly remember her – I think I might have spotted her mingling in the crowd yesterday – yet that does not explain as to why I am not at home.

Nor does it tell me where I am. Well, judging from the smell, it might be the _Slap-Bang Job_ – I very much fear so.

Discreetly, I check for my purse and then any other injuries – though I fail to find any. I do find my purse, though, and it reassures me greatly.

I must have passed out and would have been privy to being robbed.

“Where am I?”

“You don’t remember much, do you?”

I shake my head. The strange woman – well, girl, really, from the looks of it she might not be much older than I am – sets a cup with water down next to me.

“You’re still at “The Drinking Dog” - it’s were you passed out yesterday. You had quite a lot to drink, hadn’t you?”

She is smirking and I am unsure what to make of it. Does she blame me? Does she find it amusing? My mother never minded drinking – quite the opposite, seeing how she did enjoy a glass or two at times. Yet she did mind excess, and I do, vividly, recall her words, warning me of the dangers of overindulgence.

“Keep your mind sharp at all times – sharp enough to respond properly, sharp enough the walk on your own. There is no shame in enjoying an evening a week, yet one should always ensure a minimum of clarity.”

She had offered me a sip from her wine afterwards and I had declined, as I am not very fond of the taste.

Amusement it is, what her expression shows, I decide.

“I-I suppose. I am not used to it...”

I trail of, shaking my head. Then, I hesitantly glance at the cup placed next to me – and the girl picks up on it and gesture for me to take a drink.

It does make me feel a bit better, yet not as good as I wished it would.

A church bell is chiming somewhere far away. I count them and it is- Rats! - 12 o’clock already!

“I-My sincerest thanks for keeping me safe yesterday”, I say. I am not that much in a hurry, but I do not want to dwaddle the day away either.

“But do tell, how much do I owe you?”

I am unsure whether the coins I took from home will cover the expenses – for I do not know a common rate – but perhaps I can return later and…

“You’re welcome. And do not worry, I don’t intent to charge you.”

My confusion most be evident, as the girl takes but one looks at my expression and lets out a chuckle.

“My father owns the place. Nothing will befall me for letting you stay the night."

This does not help to lay my confusion aside at all – in fact, it simply puts a frown on my face.

“Wouldn’t he get mad if he found out you’re handing out free places to patrons?”

Now, she downright smirks in a way that is nothing but likeable and I know, from the way she conspiratorially lowers her voice, that we might become best friends if the circumstances were any different.

“He might. But I simply did not tell him.”

I snort at that. She chuckles again and I decide that, perhaps, I should stay a bit longer after all just to…

“MARIANNE!”

A voice calls from downstairs, grabbing the Marianne’s – and mine – attention. Her smirk vanishes at once and she lets out a sigh. As she gets up, she hands me a key – and I accept it hesitantly.

“I must go. Mother’s calling – that’s the key to back entrances, you’ve been asking about them all night. But now you better hurry home. Your mother must be worried sick”, she says, giving me a push and I stumble forward.

“Thank you for your help, Marianne...”

“Oh, call me Anne. And do great your mother, Enola, will you?”

She vanishes without another word and I follow her, closely after.

It was an odd thing to say. For I do not remember to have ever told Marianne my name, nor does it make sense for her to willingly hand me a key. Yet I did not notice and for now, I will blame it on the alcohol. Which I will _never_ indulge in ever again.

.O.

_23th of August_

Third time’s the charm, apparently. It must be, seeing how, once again, it is my third disguise that leads me to victory – I had returned already once before, after my...unfortunate visit. But, in contrast to my break in into Scotland Yard, this third time runs much more smoothly.

It doesn’t go off entirely smoothly either, though.

I am ignored, mostly, as I enter the steaming room. A few lonely souls lift their head, some go as far as eyeing me suspiciously. Yet I am but a poverty-ridden boy, of little interest to anyone here. Some might keep their few belongings closer to them, thinking of me as a _flimp._ They might wonder who I am working for, yet none of those suspicious glances last for much longer than a second and then I fade away into the crowd once more.

The pub is crowded, much more so than the other two times I went there (or I believe so – I don’t know for sure, as I don’t remember a lot from that first evening). It is later, though, as I have gathered by now that Jimmy is more fond of evenings than early afternoons. And while I curse the crowd at first – I learn to embrace it just a few seconds later.

You may now be wondering why – and with every right, too. I am looking for someone after all. However – as much as Jimmy may vanish in the crow, it does provide me with cover as well. And whilst Mister Foster may not expect me – my dearest brother, Sherlock Holmes himself, very much might.

When I first spot him – I did not do so immediately, as he, too, is in disguise – I freeze and then turn to leave – but then I reconsider. I brought the key to the back entrance – even if Sherlock were to notice I am here, I might just escape anyway.

Even with a painfully swollen ankle.

I decide it is worth the risk – I’d love to know what brought him to this place. Sneaking closer, I try to stay within the shadows, whilst also not looking too suspicious while doing so – all for vain, too, as Sherlock is sitting with his back to me.

I creep nearer, just within ear-shot – and catch the end of a conversation.

“...you say?”

“Yeah. Was told to wait here. He’s late.”

It is weird to see him like this. I’m used to immaculate pictures found in the newspapers and faint memories of him when he was younger, dressed like an academic and practising his violin.

But it is something else that manages to hold my attention for much longer.

“Jimmy? Late? That ain’t like him.”

I stop focussing on the conversation for a moment, once I catch the name. Jimmy? Why would – oh. Right. I broke into Scotland Yard.

Of course they’d ask Sherlock for help.

Though that does not explain how he managed to figure out who I had been looking for. I had been so sure that I had managed to cover my tracks…

“...his address?”

“Yeah. Gotta keep to my schedule. Heard he’s infamous around these places.”

The bartender laughs at that and my hope deflates. This does not sound promising. And I _do_ need to get to that place before Sherlock does – I can’t risk him getting all the clues first.

And, just as predicted, the bartender doesn’t know where Jimmy lives. But he does show Sherlock to a group of people sitting at the table close to the back entrances, talking among themselves.

“He usually hangs out with those guys. Aren’t friends, but...acquaintances.”

Sherlock thanks him and turns to me and I freeze, fearing I have been caught. Yet he does not notice me, instead walks right past me, his eyes focused on the group of people before him. I allow myself to breathe once more – and then I follow him. Discreetly.

That group does indeed know more.

“Wanna buy something from Jimmy? Goo’ ol’ Jimmy?”

“Heard he had some watches.”

“Watches? I suppose. I got watches, too.”

“But not the one I am looking for. He’s late, too. Where does he live?”

“Who?”

“Jimmy.”

“Why you wanna know?”

“He’s late. I don’t like waiting – and you shouldn’t keep me waiting either…”

It is a silent threat and it seems to come across, because, after another exchange of words they finally tell Sherlock the address.

Saint Louis Street number 14 apartment C.

I don’t wait around for much longer, once I know. And whilst I risk getting caught by my brother if I go now – I can’t risk him getting all the clues before me either.

.o.O.o.

I arrive at the apartment first – and I am grateful for it. However, my ankle is starting to act up again and I know that I would not be able to outrun anyone. It is too late, too, to try and melt into any crowds and thus, I do not have much of a choice other than to be quick.

And quick I am. The lock can barely be called that and it is picked in no time. I slip into the room as silently as I can – no windows.

Rats. If I had been able to open a window, perhaps I could have heard anyone approaching, giving me enough time to leave again and hide but this way…

The room itself is in chaos. It is small and cramped and I do not blame Jimmy for it not being very clean at all, but at the same time I curse once more.

I will need time to find anything, time I do not have and I’d rather not have a repeat from six days ago.

My eyes scan the room and I desperately look for something that sticks out, _anything_ , but I turn up empty-handed.

Sherlock must be close behind me, I am sure. He had stayed with the group of men a tad longer, to converse and, probably, as to not raise any suspicions – but I doubt he’d dwell for long.

And I am slowed down significantly due to my stupid, annoying ankle. It is too dangerous, I decide. I need to leave. Now.

Without paying any more attention to the room I slip out again and hobble down the hallway. There must be a way for me to find those clues. I do not know whether Sherlock is interested in my case or whether he simply has set out to find me, yet I can’t risk giving up, not when I am _this_ close.

But, perhaps – I turn around. And knock on the wall once. Then once on the door and – then I smile.

Perhaps there is a way after all.

As I reach the staircase, instead of walking downstairs, I go up – not too far, just around the corner so that I am not seen – and then, I sit down once more, exercising patience.

My choice has not been made a second too late, either, as already I can hear footsteps approaching and I tense – but it isn’t Sherlock. It is Mister Foster instead. I peer around the corner and recognize him – or think I do – but once the man turns to enter his apartment, I know for sure.

It was his.

A few minutes later and another pair of feet approach – and this time, it is my brother indeed.

A halt my breathing, tensing up some more. A shiver runs over my back and I glance down at my foot.

I would not be able to outrun him. Perhaps he might fail to recognize me again, but I do not stand a chance at outrunning.

Though, for now, I do not have to, as Sherlock passes and walks towards the very same door Jimmy disappeared into just a few minutes earlier.

He knocks – and I am grateful for Mister Foster's apartment being this close to the staircase, as I can hear him speak, even.

“Mister Foster. May I come in?”

I do not hear Jimmy’s answer, yet he opens the door. And blinks.

“Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes. I need to talk to you, Mi...”

Immediately, Jimmy tries to slam the door into my brother’s face – not giving him time to finish his sentence – but Sherlock keeps it open by a hair-width and then slowly pushes against it.

“I am not here to make an arrest, I simply need to talk to you, Mister Foster. It’d be a great relief to me if you could cooperate.”

Jimmy looks around and I flinch back, hoping he has not spied me – he has not. It is quite dark, only little light is allowed in through the windows.

His eyes flutter back to Sherlock. I let out a breath. I can’t allow myself anymore mistakes.

“No arrest?”

“No. Just a few questions. May I come inside?”

I believe Jimmy may have answered by nodding, though I am unable to see it – and then, I hear a door close and immediately get up.

You may be wondering what I am to do now – I couldn’t possibly barge into the room, however those walls and doors are thin – as I deducted when I raped on them.

I may not have to be in that room to eaves-drop on their conversation. And, indeed, as I lean against the wood, I can hear their voices – albeit muffled.

“What is it?”

“You have been followed recently, have you not, Mister Foster?”

I am surprised by Sherlock’s forwardness – he seems to be so sure of himself. Does he not fear Jimmy might refuse to answer?

“Followed?”

“Yes. Have you been followed?”

“F-Followed? How’d you know? How’d you figured that out? With, I don’t know, your _womanly_ intuition?!”

I take personal offence to that – not because of the phrase itself, but rather how contemptuously it was said.

Sherlock seems to be less affected by the statement.

„There is no such thing as „intuition““, he deadpans and I wish I could see what he is doing.

„What?“

„There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist. And now answer the question, please. Did anyone follow you?!”

For some reason, Sherlock's words speak to me, in an odd sense and I was about to call it “Intuition” - when I realize how senseless that would be.

But enough of my musings. After all, Jimmy seems to be quite willing to sing.

“...through the grapevine there was a woman asking for me. Around “The Drunken Dog”. Don’t know who she was or anything, but I heard she got really drunk and then disappeared at some point.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah. Yeah! I-Maybe she stayed at the place, maybe she left home – mate, I wasn’t there! Just – what do you want?!”

Jimmy raised his voice and I can detect frustration. I hope none of this will turn violent. But Sherlock is calm, not a single emotion being betrayed by his voice as he speaks again:”What were you doing close to the Hughesbury’s house?”

The question seemingly catches Jimmy off-guard – and once again the silence returns, but then he splutters:”The-what, how does that matter?!”

“What were you doing there?”

“What the hell?! What do you want me to say, I wasn’t there, I don know where that is!”

“You were, I already know that. I want to know _why_.”

Another silence leaves me feeling tense. But not for long.

„Mate, I – alright, I was casing the place! But I have yet to break in, I swear! I – I was trying to get that one maid to help me and then, one day, this crazy girl attacked me, out of nowhere!”

“A girl you say? Did she have brown hair, perchance?”

“Yes. Yes, she did – but, why does that matter?! Another one of your “not-intuition” things going on?”

Jimmy’s words should not have as much of an effect on me that they should have – but they do. If he had not broken in yet – and he might be lying, but I am positive he is not – I have just lost my very last clue.

And yet I have gained another.

„ _There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist."_

Sherlock’s words ring in my ears.

Perhaps I have indeed found another clue. But, most importantly, I have heard enough. Quietly, I lean away from the wall and then hasten down the stairs, as fast as I can. And not a second too soon, either. I may not have been able to see it, but Sherlock was about to crouch down to pick up a single hair.

A long, brown hair.

But by then, I am long gone already, with fresh determination to solve this case once and for all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cold Coffee: Bad Luck
> 
> Slap-Bang Job: (I forgot to add that last time, my apologies) A somewhat shady tavern
> 
> Blue Bottle: Policemen
> 
> Pig: Another term for police men (they also, unsurprisingly, had a large amount of words for this)
> 
> Crook the elbow: indulge in drinks
> 
> cat-lap: A name given to tea and coffee, usually used by scornfully by people enjoying stronger drinks.
> 
> Flimp: A pickpocket that steals in the crowds (there, apparently, was a surprisingly (and yet not surprisingly at all) large amount for pickpockets)
> 
> There is was. Sherlock. Dishing out advice like it's nobody's business – I sure do wonder whether it might have helped Enola * wink, wink, nudge, nudge * Anyone who figures out what that might be referring to will get an imaginary cookie, by the way.
> 
> Anyway. Chapter Seven is done, which means that Chapter Eight is around the corner, which means Tewkesbury actually gets to contribute more to this story than just some letter.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed today's chapter ^^


	8. The unrobbed woman; File IIX: Secrets are a pain(ting)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any last ideas of what might have happened? Because today’s chapter will provide the solution ^^ (and is also the second to last chapter concerning this case!).
> 
> I hope you’ll enjoy it and read you at the end!

The Case of the Curious Letters

Chapter One

-

_24 th of August – 7th of September 1884_

_Case: The unrobbed woman  
File IIX: Secrets are a pain(ting)_

* * *

“ _There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist.”_

Usually, I’d start off these files with my ramblings on something my mother taught me when I was younger. About the wisdom her words held, about how very grateful I am for her teachings. I’d refer to the task at hand and any problems or mysteries I might have encountered, I’d tell you just how my mother’s words have taught me greatness.

And although it was Sherlock who helped me this time, I must do so again.

“ _There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist.”_

My mother said something similar once. Not quite the same, but similar enough anyway. I think I had asked her about all those little things that had cramped our house and she had answered me, with a strange expression on her face that I have yet to place.

“Your father liked me to accompany him to the market at times – the ones in London, where they sell all those silly little trinkets he liked to collect.”

So had my mother, collecting these trinkets, though she had never said it out loud. But for all that my parents were different, they both enjoyed adorning the house with unnecessary ornaments – both Sherlock and Mycroft had detested them, apparently, and I am still unsure what to make of them myself.

“He always told me he took me because I was so good at sniffing out a good deal and a bad deal, that my womanly intuition found any hidden flaw – but, really, it was simply because I paid attention as he was talking to his friends.”

I must confess, I have never fully grasped my parents relationship. They were married, of course, and I always felt as if my mother held a certain amount of resentment towards him – yet I cannot help but wonder whether there might not have been some friendship been lost between them after all.

Regardless. I am getting of track. My mother had been right, of course, for she had always paid immense attention to any detail and Sherlock’s words remind me of that – I would not be surprised to find that my brother owes he great intellect to my mother after all. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me either if my brother had learnt this very wisdom from none other than our mother.

“ _There is no such thing as intuition. There are facts and mankind's fascinating ability to notice them, without noticing that they have noticed. In turn, they call this “intuition” – but it does not exist.”_

There is no intuition. There are merely facts that I have yet to fully realize – meaning I must get back into Mrs. Hughesbury’s room to check it one last time.

I sincerely hope that painting does not disappoint a second time.

.o.O.o.

_24 th of August_

Angrily, I stare at that ankle of mine, examining the swelling that has only grown more pronounced those past few days.

I need to rest it, that much is clear to me now. Perhaps I was a bit over-eager chasing down Jimmy Foster already – but I hadn’t had much of a choice. Even now, there is no way of knowing what Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock are up to. My brother has most likely figured out already which case exactly I’ve been working on, and, though he never once appeared to be spiteful, perhaps Sherlock is petty enough to solve this case in my stead.

I sincerely hope he is not. If I am to have any chance of not being discovered, I must lay low for the time being. Perhaps in a week or so my brother might let it go – until then he is sure to keep an eye out on the Hughesbury’s household.

It is a pity. I must admit, I have been quite excited to finally have a case to investigate – and I find myself rather bored as I stare out of my window, relaxing my foot. Neither rain nor snowflakes nor falling leaves give me any reprieve from my boredom and I can merely sit still and watch what little clouds dare to disrupt the sky. I am too unsure to visit Edith for now – perhaps Sherlock might catch me this time and I hardly dare to walk, let alone run.

It is an unexcitable life. After a few hours of simple _staring_ I move closer to the window to watch the people down below.

For once in my life, I am at a loss of what to do. I have read most my books already, and anyway, I’d rather not fall back into my old habit of turning page after page of the booklet my mother had gifted to me before she had left for good. The pages are well-worn already and it is with shame that I must admit, many a page is coated with tears.

My mother had always had a solution, but now that she is not here, all that is left to do is to pick up the pieces to try and find my way in London.

Perhaps that is her last lesson to me.

Perhaps she should have taught me medicine before leaving.

Perhaps I should finally pick up on how to sew.

.O.

_26 th of August_

I do pick up on how to sew, courtesy of a woman of _dizzy age_ lodging next to my apartment and I find myself entirely terrible at it. The woman teaching me is a strict and spiteful teacher, not unlike Miss Harrison, constantly reminding me of my wayward ways.

Yet, discussion is entertaining and a welcome diversion from the boredom I am offered otherwise. For most I do ignore her though, hardly paying attention to what she says, the way she talks about the “olden times” and the spoiled youth.

I am terrible at sewing though – this must be said and perhaps it is that what vexes her so much. Constantly she speaks ill of my mother’s upbringing – a woman she has already marked down as an irresponsible _Bluestocking_ – especially condemning her for leaving me all alone “without husband and prospect!” as she likes to put it.

But regardless, I carry on. I keep pricking my fingers and soon, it isn’t just my ankle that is hurting – but I am learning nonetheless.

Perhaps, in a year or so I might be able to alter my own dresses already. I really _do_ need to cut down on my spending, at the very least until I have found a way to secure cases more often.

.O.

_28 th of August_

It isn’t until much later that I remember I had answered Tewkesbury’s letter already – the day after having returned from “The Drunken Dog” for the first time, in fact – and that I ought to pick up his response, which is sure to have arrived already.

I must say, I am quite excited to read it. I have always been appreciative of the steady contact we have established, no doubt, but at the prospect of days turning longer and longer, I’ve caught myself desperately wishing for any kind of distraction. And a letter will do just that, be if just for a few minutes.

And, perhaps, leaving the house will do me some good, too, my ankle seems to e doing better already.

.O.

_29 th of August_

My ankle is doing better, indeed, but by no big margin. However, I managed to drag myself to the address I had left Tewkesbury to write back to and picked up the letter already, having left in the morning to escape the pressing summer heat.

It has been days ever since the last rain storm and I am feverishly hoping for the cobble stone to darken once more.

But enough of that. I am currently sitting at my desk, smiling delighted, my eyes reading over the words once more.

> “ _Dearest Clove,_
> 
> _I feel honoured for you to have written me back already! It delights me you have found more time in your day-to-day schedule and it delights me even more to know you have decided to use this time to exchange letters with me!_
> 
> _I am equally delighted you seem to have discovered yet another clue and I do wish you the very best. Are there any hints to what might have occurred already? Perhaps you will find something within that painting, though I hope you won’t have to destroy it in the process. I once read an article detailing how Sherlock found evidence within a painting, that had been painted on top of another, destroying the very first in the process, though I am confident you’d find a solution even then._
> 
> _You are_ bricky _like that after all!_
> 
> _And anyway, there are plenty of other solutions, too, of course. I am especially fond of your theory for something to be hidden within the picture frame!_
> 
> _Perhaps, you might be able to tell me in person about what you will find? I will be in London from the 2th to the 7 th of September. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting? I am unsure whether your work might not prevent you from writing me back on time though, therefore I will be waiting for you at noon each day at that flower shop, the one you found me at while I was hiding from Linthorn.”_

I do remember that flower shop and I wonder whether I’d be able to sneak up on Tewkesbury a second time.

> “ _I hope you’ll be able to stop by. I enjoy each and every letter that you send me, though I’d rather speak to you in person. And so does mother! She’s been going on and on what a pity it is you have yet to visit again. Our garden’s flowers are still in full bloom and they are a sight to behold, I am sure you’ll agree with me if you were to see them! They are the most vibrant colours one can imagine and I’ve spent a great deal of my time tending to the – suffice to say I am rather proud of my work so far._
> 
> _I must add, too, that I have added a small part filled with only the most useful of herbs – I’d love to teach you all there is to know about those that I have collected so far. And perhaps you might advice me on what other plants I could cultivate? It ought to be an excellent discussion!_
> 
> _Other than the gardens, not much has changed in Basilwhether Hall. We’ve had some trouble with the roof, though we hope it will be fixed by the time the autumn rain will come around. But uncle has promised to take care of it – I am most certain the estate would be falling apart were it not for him and mother._
> 
> _Regardless. Do keep my offer in mind – I’d be rather delighted to talk to you in person again and take care!_
> 
> _Sincerely_
> 
> _Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwhether”_

Now, I am not smiling simply because of Tewkesbury’s letter.

Well, mayhaps I am partially smiling because of his letter, yet the primary reason for my sunny expression is quite a different one.

“ _Murder spree in haunted house”_

That headline is the first thing springing into view as I open up the newspaper I bought on my way home.

Murder spree. Haunted house.

My lips twitch. I might not have known Sherlock for much of my life, yet I am most certain this will beat out chasing his pesky sister all across London.

.o.O.o.

_First of September_

It is a rather warm day and there busy chattering on the streets does nothing towards the cooling of the air, yet I can almost feel a shiver run down my back, as I sit on my chair.

“The most difficult part of doing something is figuring out where to start, Enola. What does one need first? Which people might know more? Let it be known that research is the most important and time-consuming part of every activity one ought to participate in.”

You may be wondering what I am doing right now, and you’d be very right to be confused – but let me explain.

You see, knowing that all the evidence I need is most likely hidden within a painting is an utterly useless thing to know if one does not know how to reach said evidence.

And I fear I might be out of options – except for one. You see, there is one last confidant that I could ask for help in this matter.

Though, I am rather uncertain whether she will be willing to help me out. Which is precisely why I wrote to her – I passed off a letter to one of the other servants – requesting her to meet me at an inconspicuous looking teahouse.

Which she did, yet so far she still has me under the impression she is, indeed, very much unwilling to help me.

“Miss Holmes, pray tell, what do you think would have happened, had my employer read that... _note_ you had passed off to me?”

As expected, Anne was less than pleased with me sending her that note. However, she did meet me today, so perhaps not all hope is lost just yet – regardless of what message her posture might be portraying.

“My apologies, Miss White, I was unaware that he might read your letters.”

Unceremoniously, Anne snorts at that and delicately puts her cup down. She eyes me for a few seconds, disdain barely concealed by polite coldness.

“You did not? Aren't you taught such things at whatever school you’ve been sent to? Surely, the _Holmes_ family would have only employed the best of governess’, would they not?”

If I were any lesser person, I might have taken offence to the open insult, however _I_ take offence from the indication my mother would have ever done such a thing.

I’d love to dramatically jump up and give Anne a piece of my mind, yet I decide to instead take a sip from my own tea, trying to calm my nerves.

She’s my only hope of ever getting into that house another time without having to stage _another_ break-in.

I’d rather not risk getting caught a third time.

“I never attended such an establishment”, I say, hoping the shaking of my voice will be missed by Anne’s attentive ears.

At the very least I spoke the truth. I still do not count that time I spent at Ms. Harrison’s finishing school for girls and I am most certain we wouldn’t have been thought such “trivial” manners anyway.

After all, it wouldn’t be _us_ who would have looked through private letters.

“I must admit, I am not at all surprised you haven’t”, Anne says, picking up her cup once more.

At least she seems to be enjoying her tea and, perhaps, she finds my antics amusing even, if I haven’t mistaken the smile that graced her lips for a split second.

“Well, regardless”, I say, shifting uncomfortably after Anne seems to be content to indulge in silence.

I’d rather get this over with soon.

“I expected such behaviour, which is exactly why I handed you that note, instead of writing an official letter”, I deflect, lowering my gaze.

To be honest, I hadn’t though of Mr. Hughesbury at all, but rather my brother checking the mail – if he were to reside in London, still – but Anne doesn’t need to know that. And anyway, this conversation should not centre around that note at all – and I am insulted she’d think so-

“And what makes you think that servant you’ve passed the note off to, wouldn't have gone running to Mr. Hughesbury?”

What?

“What?”

“Being passed a note is rather suspicious, is it not?”

Anne is most certainly smiling now and I drop my shoulders – completely unintentionally.

I can’t help but feel like Anne things me stupid.

But I most certainly am not. Stupid, that is. I might not have went to one of these fancy schools, yet my mother has poured her all into my education and I am convinced that there has not been a better teacher in the entire country for the past 100 years.

I am proud of the education I have received and I am confident in my own abilities.

I am certain this argument will be solved in no time at all.

“Well, of course. But what reason would any of the others staff members have to tell on you? Would they not support you as one of their own, so to say?”

Loyalty is a cherished virtue, after all.

Anne seems to differ.

For a second, it seems she is _choking_ on her tea, but she catches herself and looks up at me, eyes wide in surprise. Then her lips curl into yet another smile – pitying, this time.

It makes my stomach churn and I wish I could flee this conversation already.

“I must wonder, Miss Holmes – has you family taught you nothing at all?”

Her smile is most certainly pitying. And yet, I can’t feel as if something else were to hide behind it.

.O.

_Third of September_

I must say, I am surprised to find myself standing in front of Ada’s room once again. For some time, I had not expected Anne to help me at all, but soon enough, our conversation turned more pleasant and she was willing to let me into the house one last time.

“But this one time only! And I never want to see you again after!”, she had warned me time and time again, as we had bid our farewells. I was to head over to the estate two days later, in the evening, when Mr. and Mrs. Hughesbury would be gone for the night.

“Dinner at friends”, Anne had informed me, shortly before departing:”You are in luck.”

And in luck I was indeed, as our plan goes off without a hitch. Anne had asked me to dress in the maid’s clothes again and no one pays me any mind as I follow her upstairs, to where Ada’s room is.

And now I find myself standing right in front of it.

I am more nervous than I should be and Anne doesn't seem to mind the tense atmosphere at all, as already she had opened the door to let me in.

“Thank you”, I say, just before entering. I slip into the room and Anne follows, the door closing with a quiet “click”.

The room is in a pristine condition, sheets washed and windows sparkling. Not a thing is set out of place and nothing has changed since the last time I have been here.

And yet I take my time to inspect the room another time anyway. Perhaps there is something obvious I have missed after all – but I turn up empty-handed.

Until I stop at the desk that is and a frown darkens my expression.

I pause for a second, a small booklet having caught my gaze.

I frown and pull it out and, indeed, it is what I thought it to be – the same booklet handed to me by my mother.

Anne clears her throat. Right. Time is of the essence.

“It’s the painting”, I say, clearing my own throat as well, before making my way over to the bed, shaking of the feeling I previously felt. It must have been a different, albeit similar booklet. The one my mother gifted to me was hand-made for her own _daughter_.

And Mrs. Hughesbury might not have ever talked to my mother as of now.

“Might you help me take it down?”, I elaborate, as I look back at Anne who seems to be rather surprised by my sudden course of action.

“The painting?”

“I have my suspicions.”

I sincerely hope I am right in those suspicions. I’d be humiliating if I were to be wrong again – but my brother’s words ring in my ears still and I am convinced.

If anything has ever happened in this room and Mrs. Hughesbury has indeed not imagined a thing, it is sure to be connected to this painting.

It is as pretty as I remember and Anne and I carefully take it off the wall, hoping not to damage it. Not only would that unsettle Mrs. Hughesbury again, it would also be a great pity.

“We need to be perfectly careful!”, Anne added to my worries:”Ada has eluded Mr. Hughesbury and she might want to exhibit it soon.”

I hope whatever I hope to find will be found easily. In his letter, Tewkesbury suggested the painting might have been painted over another, yet the layers of colour seem fine. I knock on the heavy frame, yet it seems to be solid.

I lightly shake the painting, yet I turn up empty-handed.

I frown. So does Anne and I can already sense her raising suspicions, when I kneel down one last time, to examine the paint and pictures. Perhaps something is written inside of it, a message, a clue, any…

My frown grows stronger as I notice something...off.

Carefully, I let my finger slide over the paint – and then my breath hitches.

“What-What is it? What have you found?”, Anne hisses and she slides closer, looking at the place I am.

There is a difference here and at first I think it _is_ paint, another layer drawn upon the first, but then I notice – it isn’t.

The realization dawns upon me at once and my eyes widen in surprise.

“There’s something behind the painting.”

My voice is barely a whisper as I touch the painting again – and indeed, I can feel something.

A sheet of paper. I can feel the outline of a sheet of paper.

“Behind the painting? On the wall? I do not...”

“Between the painting itself and the frame’s back.”

How could I have been so blind? So ignorant? I flip the drawing over once, examining the back, narrowing my eyes. I should have checked this place the first time already, it had been _so obvious_ and-

“Can we get it out?”

Now is not the time to scold myself. There will be plenty of time to do so later on.

Anne nods and hastens to help me take the painting from the frame, careful fingers unclasping brackets I had previously not noticed.

I bite my lip. I _should_ have noticed. I am getting too distracted and I can’t let my concentration slip like that.

Soon enough the painting is free and taken from the frame, revealing the very thing I had expected to be there.

Three sheets of paper, neatly stacked upon each other, a yellow-brownish and rumpled appearance giving them their very own air of mystery.

They’re littered with numbers, ranging from One to 100 and at first I am confused by this, but then I realize and I must say, it is laughably easy.

The numbers above 26 are much too rare for them to hold any significance besides being a mindless distraction and soon enough the letters are translated – whoever has written this code did not even take their time to shift anything around.

Anne doesn’t seem to struggle with uncoding the message either, though she does need a little bit longer than I do.

I know this from the way he eyes suddenly widen, once she figures just _what_ it is that this letter says, and the way her skin _drains_.

„This-This was never sent to Ada! Those aren’t real, she-She’d never, she...“, she stutters and I finish reading the letter a second time, looking for any other hidden messages.

„I know“, I interrupt her mindlessly pushing the first letter aside to check the second – which spots an entirely different date – the 5th of June, to be more precise – feigning an exchange. Which I know, because I have seen the _real_ coded letter and this is nothing short but making a mockery of the original code – and my mother’s brilliance.

With all that I know, I do wonder what their contents are. I have yet to solve the code. I have to find yet a third message and I wonder whether I am missing something.

„My mother would never use a code this simplistic. – I was five when I first solved these. And I’d argue Mrs. Hughesbury is more sophisticated than I was when I was five”, I add, as I try to make sense of the message and this seems to put Anne’s worry to rest – for a few short seconds until she realizes the situation we both have found ourselves in.

It is simplistic in its coding and in its content. A simple plan, outlining an attack on a factory on the outskirts of London.

Mr. Hughesbury’s factory, to be more precise.

“What are we to do now?”, Anne hisses, looking at me expectantly and I bite my lip, as I read over the letters once more.

Someone broke into this room just to plant those letter - and at first I am baffled as to why anyone would do that? Who might profit from Ada being portrayed as an extreme suffragette, who is willing to participate in acts of violence against the greater public?

A sudden thought takes over my mind – one I have tried my very hardest to swallow those past few months – and I shake my head.

Now is not the time to think about any case other than this one. If these letters were to be presented to anyone else, Ada’s life would be ruined. She be tried before a court, for crimes she never committed –

_That’s what you think”, a voice whispers into my ear and once again I swallow the bitter bile that rises inside my throat._

\- she will most certainly lose her children, would most likely get divorced and thrown out on the…

My head snaps up at once. No. They wouldn’t, he…

“Anne”, I whisper, cold shivers running down my back:”Anne, when...when did Mr. and Mrs. Hughesbury’s married life take on that...that strange tension everyone’s been talking about?”

Anne’s eyes snap up, too, and for a second she simply stares at me, disbelievingly.

It seems to dawn on her, too, yet I can’t help but think she looks as if she is trying to fight the realization with all the denial she has to offer.

“When-The first time she came back from one of these...”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to, either.

“That banquet, that’s planned – who will be attending?”

“E-Everyone, her family, friends, business associates – it’s a huge thing Mr. Hughesbury planned and-and...”

She trails off once more. My gaze falls back onto the letters and then, determined, I storm towards the desk and sit down, ripping open the drawers until I find pen and paper.

Anne simply follows my movements with her gaze, not saying a single thing.

It is an eerie silence that settles above us and I would not like it, if it weren’t for me diving into writing another letter.

One that outlines just what has happened.

Once I am finished, I ask:”Miss White, would it perhaps be possible for me to be sneaked into the house yet another time?”

The maid swallows. Then she nods.

“It’s Anne. And I-I’ll see what I can do.”

.o.O.o.

 _7_ _th_ _of September_

My first case. My first case is coming to an end, I realize, as I look at myself in the mirror, smoothing out the fabric of the dress I am wearing.

It looks pretty enough, I suppose. Nothing too fancy, though I will not attend this banquet to make any lasting impressions, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.

It is a simple dress, reddish, not unlike the one when I had first visited Edith’s. The shape is a tad out of style, as Anne has told me, yet my impression will already be of the worst anyway. The banquet includes dinner and then dessert and I will be unable to join for dinner, greatly delaying my arrival until the very last moment.

“There aren’t many virtues upheld by society we should hold on to – yet punctuality, Enola, is a value you should _always_ keep in mind.”

I hate to disappoint my mother – even if I merely do so in my mind – and I’d even live through a boring dinner filled with nonsense conversation if I had to – yet I can’t. If it hadn’t been for Mister Hughesbury having seen me on that second day of my investigation – it’s been half a month already, hasn’t it? – I might have joined on time, after sending out word to Mrs. Hughesbury of course.

But Mr. Hughesbury has seen me and if he hadn’t, I could have done a lot of things differently. For now, I am stuck in a dress that doesn’t fit me properly, preparing myself to attend a banquet I have never been invited to.

I wonder whether Sherlock ever finds himself in such ridiculous situations as I do.

I suppose he does. He _is_ known for disguising himself, after all.

I check my appearance one last time. A church bell chimes in the distance once again.

It is time to make a last stand.

.O.

Anne is waiting for me at the estate’s entrance, easily letting me in. She was the one to set my name on the guest list – an unnecessary precaution, seeing how she was the one to greet the guest, after all.

“I warned Ada”, she says, as we pass the door and she takes my jacket:”She wants to tell you she is grateful by your continued interest in her case – even though you did not have to solve it.”

I nod along and try to catch a glance in the mirror, feeling very much excited. This time, no guns will be pointed at me, yet I can’t help but feel as if all air has escaped my lungs.

I am a detective. I will need to get used to this, to the final moment before the case is put to rest.

Hopefully I will find myself in this exact position plenty of more times.

“Have you told her of what might happen?”

“I tried to, but Ada wanted to be surprised.”

I nod, frowning. We had discussed this. I had wanted Mrs. Hughesbury to know – I do not wish to catch her by surprise, no matter how exciting of an experience it might be.

“Must we do it like this?”, Anne whispers. We make our way to the staircase and I see the nervousness in her eyes.

“Must we solve this as publically as this?”

I know what she means, of course. Announcing the solution at this banquet is no more private than if I were to tell the press, however I doubt we have much of a choice in that matter.

“We need to wait for Mr. Hughesbury to make a move”, I reply:”We do not have much evidence. We have the letters, yes, but all that proves is that Mrs. Hughesbury might be involved with a criminal organisation. Neither does it prove that Mrs. Hughesbury has been framed nor does it prove that her husband was the one to arrange for that to happen. We might find more if we investigate the butler, but as you have pointed out, we do not have much time – Mr. Hughesbury’s trap might fall closed any time now.”

The letters had detailed an attack and said attack had had a time limit attached to its name. The 24th of September, to be more precise.

And, as Anne pointed out, Mr. Hughesbury would most likely want this to be a well-known attack, too.

“ _Surely, he will want everyone to know._ _It will make the divorce much easier, without his reputation being in danger.”_

It is a stretch, of course, yet Anne made hurry.

I startle when I hear a door close, one leading to the gardens, and I hear steps coming our way, yet I don not pay them any mind, as I hasten up the stairs.

“You will be waiting outside, until they call for the painting – if they call for it at all, yes?”

“Yes.”

We do not have much evidence, but we do have Mr. Hughesbury’s arrogance. He may just fall into his own trap. And if he does not – we have gathered enough clues to cast doubts upon the whole affair.

“I do hope we might have more time, still”, Anne says, as she ushers me closer and closer to the salon:”You said you’d like to investigate the butler, yes?”

“Exactly. Maybe we can find a piece of his writing and compare his style of writing to the one on the letters?”

My brother’s words – Sherlock’s – come to my mind, the ones he told me while I was a prisoner at Ms. Harrison’s still. I wonder whether we’ll be able to make use of this knowledge this time.

“Or perhaps someone might have seen him deal with some shady figures...”

“Have you investigated that Jimmy Foster fellow already?”

“I have, but I haven’t found anything of interest – but perhaps we’ll find more. Perhaps we can compare the letters to those of all servants? I am most suspicious of the butler, but other than his closeness to Mr. Hughesbury, we do not have any other evidence pointing to him...”

I trail off and can’t help my worsening mood. If I were Sherlock, I might have been able to gather a clue from the paper used, or the ink.

I wonder whether, perhaps, I might have to hand this case to him, but discard that thought immediately.

This is my case. And I will be the one to solve it, too.

Resolute, I follow Anne, until we get to a door and she halts me, making sure no one is around.

“There is a room not too far from here. You might want to wait there as to not arise any suspicions and I will call on you once Mr. Hughesbury has sent for the painting – if he does at all.”

That, too, we had discussed, although just at the end and not as thoroughly. I am about to agree, to move away from the door – when it suddenly opens and a woman steps out, casting a quick glance at us, but not paying us any more mind.

But it isn’t the woman that has me startles. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is laughter and then a voice, one that I wish I knew just a little bit less.

Mycroft.

“We have to leave”, I hiss, as I pull Anne back into the hallway, away from the door. She glowers at me, yet I do not pay it any mind as I slowly start to put as many space between me and my brother – I cannot run and I fear he might step out for but a second and stop me.

“Miss Holmes, where are we...”

“I cannot be seen by my brother”, I hiss and Anne at first seems to want to respond – no doubt lashing out at me once again, but then she stops. Lowers her gaze.

“I forgot”, she says:”Ada mentioned something along those lines.”

We fall into silence and I am tempted to bite my nails.

Of course. Of _course_ Mycroft would be here. Had Mr. Hughesbury not told me he was on close terms with that brother of mine? How could I have forgotten so easily?

“But what are we to do now? Can’t you just enter the room regardless? What’s the worst he could do? Scold you in front of the party?”

I fervently wish that were the least Mycroft would do, however it isn’t.

“He does not know where I am and we have to keep it that way”, I respond, wondering whether perhaps Anne could simply take over.

“What do you mean, he doesn’t know where you are?!”

After all, does it matter _who_ delivers our findings? It could be anyone, really.

“I have...run away, so to speak, and if he were to see me, he is sure to drag me away to some stuffy old place – which cannot happen!”

Then again, Anne is known to be Mrs. Hughesbury’s maid and, surely, their friendship might put out findings into question.

“What...you _ran away_?! Are you living on your own? Have you gone insane?!”

Maybe we can lure him away from the party for long enough for me to make my case and then vanish into the night once more. If it weren’t for my stupid foot, I might even dare to simply enter and hope Mycroft’s surprise will keep him from reacting for long enough for me to run away afterwards, but...it is still swollen.

“I take after my mother, who – admittedly – might be titled as such by some people, but I assure you I am doing perfectly splendid on my own – in fact, I’d argue anyone choosing _not_ to...

“Enola?”

I freeze as I hear a familiar voice and first, all the bells in my head go off as I half-expect Mycroft to snatch my wrist and drag me away.

But instead of sharp nails digging into my skin, it is a soft hand that catches my shoulder. My eyes widen and I am about to whirl around, to see who it is – but Anne beats me to it.

“L-Lord Tewkesbury? W-Do you require my- _our_ assistance?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dizzy age: elderly
> 
> Blue sock: A woman interested in literary and/or intellectual matters. It wasn’t originally used as a derogatory term, but later on apparently was, so I’m rolling with it for now.
> 
> Bricky: Clever/brave
> 
> Told you all that Tewkesbury gets to contribute. Not much yet, but the next two (to three) will be filled with some Holmesbury interactions, so that’s something we all can look forward to ^^ Next chapter will be the last one of this case, but I can promise there won’t be anymore evidence coming into play. I hope you liked the resolution, I hope it doesn’t seem to far-fetched (I try to ensure that the reader has as much information on what’s going on as Enola has, and I hope that worked out the way I wanted it to) and I hope the solution was somewhat satisfying to read.
> 
> I’d love to read your thoughts on the matter and until next time ^^


	9. The unrobbed woman; File IX: A scandal during dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day! (Also, any suggestions to Tewkesbury's first name are welcome!)
> 
> I re-watched the entire movie a few days ago. And Enola and Tewkesbury – they’re so awkward. Absolutely awkward. They’re just two dorks dorking around together being absolutely (a)dorkable. (Also, Tewkesbury shouting “But why would you want to attract the bloody sharks?!” at the end is the best quote from that movie and no one can change my mind about it.) (Also, also, that last scene includes a whole lot of inappropriate touching (I mean, come on, holding hands with someone who isn’t your fiancé?! How *scandalous*) and I have now established my head canon that neither of these two care all that much for appropriate distance).
> 
> Also, I figured out there’s a town called “Tewkesbury” in London, roughly 110 miles (177 km) away from London and according to a quick google search trains in the 1880s could go up to 80 mph, however only on straight lines etc., which means the average velocity would be around 40 mph, meaning that one needs about three hours (four, if one features in any stop that one would need to make due to an absence of a food wagon before 1888) to get from Tewkesbury to London.
> 
> If you cycle instead (which I took as a substitute for carriages, because, alas, google maps doesn’t offer the “horse carriage” option) you’ll need around ten hours. Which makes some sense within the movie
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling, I hope you’ll enjoy today’s chapter and see you in two weeks!

The Case of the Curious Letters  
  
Chapter 9

-

_7th of September 1884_

_Case I: The unrobbed woman  
File IX: A scandal during dinner_

* * *

The last time I saw Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwheter – better known as just “Tewkesbury” - I do wonder what his first name is though, I never asked, did I? - or simply “Nincompoop” - it was at the gates to parliament. And I had just declined an invitation from his mother to stay with them for the time being.

It has been quite some months since then and I must confess – I am uncertain of what to make of his sudden appearance.

In fact, I am uncertain what to say. There isn’t any advice I can extract from this situation, there isn’t any wisdom to gain at all.

There – There simply isn’t much else to say.

About this.

My mother never talked much about friends.

Well, that one time she did tell me to “never let go of a true friend, for there is nothing purer than friendship and no one will stay longer by your side than those who deem you part of their family.”

Now, I have no intentions of severing my friendship with that nincompoop. Yet I do find trouble in seeing him as part of my family.

That would make him my brother and that’d be weird, I suppose?

I am not entirely sure.

Regardless. There isn’t much to say.

I-I am unsure whether I am to feel relieved to have his supportive presence by my side. I have enjoyed exchanging letters with him a great deal.

I suppose he might have felt the same.

My uncertainty at his sudden appearance mostly stems from this situation’s awkwardness. Because we haven’t spoken in some time, you see.

And, perhaps, because he kissed my hand and it made my stomach flutter in an entirely inappropriate way and- It doesn’t matter.

I must focus on this case.

It is probably a rather unfortunate coincidence he has come to this banquet today. How does he know the Hughesbury family, anyway? Surely they can’t be that influential, can they? They aren’t nobility from what I have gathered. They are rich. But not noble. Maybe some distant relative married into the family? Not unlike a _dollar princess_?

Perhaps. I suppose I’d prefer if I had not to deal with _this_ specific social interaction.

But then again – I did miss him. His ridiculousness is quite amusing, is it not?

Regardless. I shall solve this – situation.

I just wish my mother had imparted some wisdom to me about this subject matter.

.o.O.o.

“Enola?”

“L-Lord Tewkesbury? W-Do you require my- _our_ assistance?”

Tewkesbury? Unwillingly, a smile sneaks upon my features. What was-

Surprised, I turn around – and am greeted by a widely smiling face, bright eyes and hair that has most definitely been grown out again.

“Enola, it really is you! I thought I had recognized voice – what are you doing here?”

Tewkesbury takes a step back, his eyes leaving me just once to glance at Anne who is standing besides me, barely being able to conceal her astonishment.

I do not blame her. Yet, I wish she were not, for she'd be able to help me out if she weren’t. I am entirely at a loss of words – Tewkesbury and I have not seen each other in quite some time and I had not expected for him to be here at all.

Once again, he manages to mess up my carefully laid out plans.

And then Tewkesbury’s smile slowly loses its radiance and I realizes that it isn’t that awkward of a situation at all.

We are friends.

We are friends.

A bright smile sneaks itself onto my features and I step closer, pulling him into a hug.

“Tewkesbury!”

He tenses for a second, before returning the hug and a few moments later I separate already, stepping out of his personal space – which, I suppose, brings us to a more appropriate distance.

Weirdly enough, Anne’s eyes seems to twitching, yet she stays silent.

“I did not expect for you to be here at all!”

“Well, neither did I!”, Tewkesbury responds, stepping back, too:”But regardless. You’re here! I-I was worried you may not have gotten my letter – when you never came to meet me in Covent Garden!”, he says and I freeze – immediately.

If I had held onto something, I would most certainly have dropped it.

Covent Garden.

He had invited me to meet him in Covent Garden.

That had completely slipped my mind. I – between the newspaper article and the case and everything – and I would have had time, too!

“Enola? Are you quite alright?”

I cannot tell him. I cannot tell him I forgot to meet him – that – the thought makes my stomach churn and I do not know why though I-

“I-I was indisposed”, I quickly respond, perhaps _too_ quickly to be believable, but – I was.

I was!

I was.

I was busy and forgot about it, but I had been too occupied by this case! I had been nervous and I would have made terrible company anyway!

I still do have a bad consciousness though. Tewkesbury is looking at me understandingly, and yet there is a sadness to his eyes that I’d rather not be exposed to.

“Do you remember that case I have told you about?”, I ask in attempt to distract from the awkwardness. We may not have seen each other in quite some time, but talking to him has always been easy and – well, I will not let-

I shouldn’t have forgotten about him. Perhaps I should simply tell him about what happened – but already the sadness has disappeared and I decide to let the topic rest for now.

It isn’t all that important, is it?

“The case – of course, did you not mention Mrs. Hughesbury? I should have known!”

It really isn’t all that important, with all that is going on at the moment.

The story is told quickly enough – though I did leave out one detail or another – and Tewkesbury listens attentively, his eyes shocked when I pull out the letters and show him the de-coded version.

I must admit that his sudden appearance might have been fortunate indeed, seeing how it forces me to go over every detail once more – If I were to be wrong, if it hadn’t been Mr. Hughesbury at all – it’d be a disaster!

But I am sure. It all adds up and once I get a specimen of handwriting of both, Mr. Hughesbury and the butler, I am sure I’d have my final piece of evidence.

I’d just be much easier to sample if they are willingly – or have been coerced into – helping me.

And then I mention Mycroft and how that has thrown a wrench into my plans – I really do not plan on letting myself b caught – and suddenly perks up, an idea lighting up behind his eyes.

“I could do it?”

“Do what?”

“I could be the one to tell the truth – the solution! I won’t have any problems getting inside!”

Well. Yes. He could do that, but…

“I’m not sure whether – I do not wish to burd-”

“Nonsense!”, he interjects, his voice almost vibrating with excitement:” And they’re more likely to listen to me!“, Tewkesbury argues, his voice almost vibrating with excitement.

It’s adorable. From a strictly observatory standpoint, of course.

I need to practice my deductive skills and this is just one of many exercises.

“I agree.”

“What?”

Anne steps forward, daring to raise her voice again – not without casting a nervous glance at Tewkesbury though.

“I agree. They’re more likely to listen to you, my Lord, than to me – or you, Enola – and this is a matter of utmost sensitivity! I’d rather use all and any advantages that we might have and having a member of the House of Lord speak on our behalf certainly will be favourable – much more than having a maid or an...unconventional woman do so.”

Anne is right, of course, and yet… This is my case. And I’d like to see it to an end, too. I turn around to Tewkesbury once more, trying to find a reasoning that makes sense, when my thoughts are most rudely interrupted by brightly shining eyes and an almost pleading expression.

“I’d love to help, too!”

His smile is contagious – and so is his excited mood.

Mayhaps it is for the better if Tewkesbury were to one to lay out what we have found. It would keep me safer too, seeing how Mycroft is still and unplanned for thorn in my side.

“Alright – but, perhaps, you could not tell anyone my name? As a precaution?”

Tewkesbury nods eagerly, before remembering his manners and he chimes:”Worry not – I will be as vague as possible – Mycroft won’t find out a thing!”

And then Tewkesbury’s smile gets almost impossibly bright and so does mine and for a moment we simple do that – smile at each other – before it is Anne who clears her throat.

She seems tense and my eyes widen in realization that _we are on a case_ and this _is perhaps the most important part of all_.

I clear my throat as well.

“Now that the matter is settled – do you have any more questions? Can anyone think of something we might have missed?”

Tewkesbury’s expression, too, becomes more tense and he shakes his head – so does Anne.

I nod. Clear my throat another time. Then I hand him the letters we had taken from behind the painting and nod a second time.

“In that case – May I ask for your assistance with this case, my Lord?”, I tease.

Tewkebury smirks. I frown.

“What?”

“My lord?”

Involuntarily, I can feel my cheeks heat up.

“Ugh! You’re such a nincompoop, just _go_ already!”

.o.O.o.

Anne and I watch Tewkesbury leave as he makes his way down the hall towards the salon.

Then I rip my eyes away from his retreating form.

Right. We have a case to work and there must be a way for me to eavesdrop on the ongoings in that room.

“Anne, is there a servant’s entrance leading to that room? Some way to get closer without being noticed?”

I turn around to face her, trying my very best to appear serious and not at all giddy, and it comes to me quite naturally, too! Though, perhaps Anne’s stone-faced expression may play a part in that, too.

„How have you ever met the Marquess of Basilwheter?!“, Anne hisses, before pulling me into the shadows, her eyes scanning the area for any onlookers.

“And you seemed to know each other so well, too! How would a woman – a woman like you no less – ever meet someone of such importance?”

Well, now Anne’s just being plain insulting. But I suppose she has a point. Would it not have been for a coincidence, Tewkesbury and I would most likely never have met.

My stomach churns just thinking of it. Tewkesbury may be a nincompoop, but he means a great deal to me.

I am about to inform Anne of what sort of occurrence led to mean knowing the Viscount, but already her eyes widen in understanding – everyone knows of the attempt that had been made on his life and I am not at all surprised that Anne managed to connect that case – solved under mysterious circumstances no less – to the likes of me.

“You – the disappearance – were you the one to find him?”

Her voice speaks of disbelieve – and understanding, as confusing as it may sound.

“Yes? He happened to be taking the same train as I did when we – well, when we both tried to escape out families.”

I dislike the way my answer appears to be a question almost, but there is nothing to be done about it now.

And anyway, I’d rather find a way to eavesdrop instead of talking about an old case of mine – and Tewkesbury. I am unsure as to why, but I’d rather keep my mouth shut on that specific topic.

“So, are there any servant entrance’s or the likes?”

My question seems to work the way I hoped it would, as Anne’s expression looses most of her curiosity, substituted by bewilderment.

“What?”

“Is there any way for me to sneak into that room? I’d like to listen to everything happening!”

“Oh. No. No, you will not.”

“What? Why?”

But Anne isn’t listening. Instead she snatches my wrist and drags me even farther away from where I ought to be, until we reach a door leading to a smaller room, lit by just a few candles.

“You – You will stay right here.”

Anne lets go of my wrist and her eyes narrow determinedly.

“You will stay here being as inconspicuous as possible. _I_ will go back there and serve my lady – and once all is done and said, I will report back to you – but don't you _dare_ to leave this room! Whatever will happen tonight, it might greatly ruin my lady’s reputation and you’d only make it worse!”

.o.O.o.

Tewkesbury had not expected to meet Enola in the Hughesbury residence. He may have thought of it, seeing how her case had been centred around Mrs. Hughesbury – but he hadn’t paid much mind to the many dinners that his mother had asked him to attend.

“ _The Tewkesbury’s reputation has taken quite a blow ever since – well, you know. And now that your uncle is out of the country it falls to you to uphold our family’s good name! I pray you will be on your best behaviour?”_

And he had been! He simply...He simply had, perhaps, cared a tad less about which family exactly they were visiting. And anyway, it was mostly his mother who had been social. He had politely listened to some other gentleman discussing politics and the economy, keeping to himself mostly. As was expected of him. He may have a seat in the House of Lords – but he wasn’t necessarily seen as an equal yet.

He didn’t mind it all too much – it gave him more time to worry about Enola. He hadn’t known, of course, whether she had received his letter at all – yet he had been worried she might have gotten herself into trouble.

She’d probably be _bricky_ enough to get herself out of trouble, too, however he worried nonetheless. He had almost gone to investigate the address he had been instructed to send his last letter, too, hoping to obtain some information there – but he had held off until the last possible moment.

Perhaps she had been busy, he had thought. And busy she had been, indeed. With her very own case, one that had led to them crossing paths once again and he had not minded one bit.

He could help her, too! He remembered that time they had run away from Mr. Harrison’s finishing school together quite well and so did he remember the joy it had brought him. The elevation he had felt at hatching the plan and preforming it. He wouldn't have minded Enola choosing to go to London instead of Basilwether Hall one bit – he had quite enjoyed the thought of them solving many more mysteries together.

Though it would have kept him from parliament – would have kept the bill from being passed.

Perhaps it was better that she had made him go to Basilwether Hall.

He enjoyed helping Enola solve this case anyway.

“Darling? Are you alright?”

The sudden voice sounding out next to him made him jump up, almost, and Tewkesbury’s head whirled around – his heartbeat only calming down once he realized it was none other than his mother, having taken a seat next to him, frowning worriedly.

“Did I startle you?”

“No – No, I-I am quite alright.”

“Are you sure? You seem so tense – not unlike Mrs. Hughesbury, I must say, I do wonder what is going on with her tonight.”

Tewkesbury forced himself to smile and glanced towards the hostess. She was at the other side of the room, standing next to her husband and smiling widely as she talked to a friend of hers.

“ _Mrs. Hughesbury asked to not be informed of what will happen – she wants to be surprised – even though we protested several times – and perhaps it is for the better, as the less she knows, the less likely she is to admit anything.”_

“ _Yes – but, my Lord, please do keep an eye on her? I am frightened to think of what will happen to her tonight...”_

The maid had been right – he never had gotten her name, maybe he could ask Enola? - tonight would be a strenuous night for all those involved.

No matter the outcome, a divorce was surely to follow. No matter the outcome, someone’s reputation would be brought to ruin.

He had to make sure Mrs. Hughesbury got out of the affair as unscathed as possible.

“Darling? You’re doing it again, are you really quite alright?”

Tewkesbury jumped yet another time, attracting quite some attention to himself by various gentleman that smirked amused.

“You’ve been tense all evening – ever since we came back in from the gardens! Did anything happen?”

Yes.

“No, mother. I...simply needed to check something.”

“Very well – I do wish you’d tell me what exactly you had been checking for, though. Perhaps once we are at home? Or on the carriage ride there?”

“Perhaps, mother.”

And she got up and left him to his own devices – left him to tensely wait for anything that might happen.

Truth be told, as excited as he was – he couldn’t help but feel as if, mayhaps, this was _not_ the best thought out plan.

He was nervous. Incredibly so and he felt himself reminded of the time Enola and he had taken the auto mobile to Basilwether Hall to find his uncle.

They had found the dowager instead.

Tewkesbury let out a nervous breath.

Enola had said that they weren't sure whether anything would happen tonight at all – it was likely it would.

He hoped it wouldn’t.

He was to be disappointed.

Maybe another half an hour passed and then Mr. Tewkesbury ordered for the painting to be brought in.

Mrs. Hughesbury‘s eyes lit up at that idea when she saw it, seemingly proud of the purchase she had made.

It made Tewkesbury shudder. She truly did not know.

It was frightening.

It didn’t take the maids long to fetch said painting – though it seemed entirely long to Tewkesbury. Once brought in, he scrutinized it to the very last detail.

It was the one Enola had told him about. Working woman in a factory, shown under the pretence of wanting to discuss social issues.

The banquet was held in honour of one of Mr. Hughesbury’s factories after all – it only made sense for him to want and discuss it.

When Tewkesbury seated himself closer to the group, feigning interest, he felt as if he were in a dream-like state. He laughed when Mr. Hughesbury asked all members of parliament to implement their solutions. He nodded along as some other artwork was discussed first.

He pretended to be intrigued when Mr. Hughesbury feigned to have spotted the piece of paper, his only tell being the way he glanced at Mrs. Hughesbury, appearing similarly surprised.

Resolve settled in his stomach.

Just in time as Mr. Hughesbury pulled out two pieces of paper – his frowning expression at the wrong number being the first hint to what was really going on.

And then his eyes widened in insult and the first piece of paper flew from his hand.

It was a picture of him, hand drawn – as a caricature.

Tewekesbury smiled ever so lightly. Of course. Of course Enola would leave her very own signature on the case. Though he rather liked the look of them.

Then Mr. Hughesbury read the second letter – and his facade fully slipped.

“Is-Is this supposed to be a joke?!”, he gasped, his head whirling around to face his wife – who looked at him in surprise.

The picture-him, seemingly trying to make sense of the drawing.

But it was too late to turn back now – murmurs had broken out along the group of people already and someone was already asking to hear the contests of that second letter.

Mrs. Hughesbury’s face turned ashen when the first words were read. The murmurs got even louder, barely being numbers any more at all and Tewkesbury knew now was the time to act.

He pulled out the neatly folded papers from his pocket, took one last deep breath – you better be right with this, Enola – and got up.

“Four Ninety-Two Seventy-Eight Five Thirty-Six Eighteen...”, he started, raising his voice in an attempt to drown out all the speculations.

He heard his mother gasp, worried eyes resting upon him, and soon enough she pulled at his suit, to get him to sit down again.

“What are you doing?”, she whispered, but he paid her no mind.

He’d explain later.

“...Twenty-Seven One Hundred and eighteen Five Forty-three Nineteen Twenty Eighty-Seven Eighty-Nine Thirteen Twenty-Eight Fifty-Five Eighteen Seventy-Three Nineteen...”

Tewkesbury felt a bit ridiculous reading out a bunch of numbers, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to grab everyone’s attention before the situation got out of control – needed to appear calm and collected as if the plan was bang _up to the elephant_ and not merely makeshift, adjusted at the very last second.

And their attention he got.

Everyone was looking at him now – I made him feel rather uncomfortable, and yet it wasn’t all that much different from whenever he spoke in parliament. He had not been allowed to do so terribly often – but if he was able to hold a speech in a room filled with gossip and judgement, he’d be able to survive this assembled party as well.

“Viscount Tewkesbury, may I ask what you are hinting at?”, a gentleman from the crowd asked. Tewkesbury noted it wasn’t Mr. Hughesbury who did – instead, _he_ was frozen in his seat, eyes blown wide open.

He most likely remembered the code.

“Of course. These papers – from which I just read – were found behind that painting. In the very same way the two Mr. Hughesbury is currently holding were – not a week ago. Three letters had been hidden behind it, all three encoded – though I have a de-coded version of what the messages read – if I may?”

Without a second of hesitation, he started reading, the entire room his captive audience.

“Dearest Mrs. Hughesbury. We agree with your assessment of the subject – it is time for us to strike! We must act now, or the chance will slip from our finger – however we must confirm with you, Mrs. Hughesbury, first. On the...”

He didn’t get far – not long and his name was being hissed. He paused for just a second, to take in his mother’s angered expression. With the nod of her chin she pointed at Mrs. Hughesbury – who had gone completely white, a hand hiding her lips and her eyes impossibly wide.

Tewkesbury’s mouth opened in realization and he glanced down at the paper he was holding, still – and cleared his throat, letting his _daddles_ sink to rest at his side.

“Perhaps – Perhaps it is better – for now – if we do not read out the exact content of those letters aloud. I am certain its intent is clear to anyone – though, if anyone wishes to read the whole of it, I’d gladly hand out the translation – and the coded message itself, if anyone wants to review the honesty with with the original message has been decoded.

Murmurs filled the room for a few tense moments – but no one spoke up.

Tewkesbury nodded. Folded the paper into two and let it fall onto the table, before bowing his chin.

“Very well.”

He took a breath, steadying himself. Those were serious allegations he was about to bring up.

He sincerely hoped Enola had been right in her assumptions.

“These letters were the ones originally hidden behind the painting – as ordered by Mr. Hughesbury, to frame his wife.”

Immediately, murmurs flared up, not unlike they had before, but Tewkesbury had no intention of letting himself be distracted.

“Mr. Hughesbury did so in an attempt...”

But once again, he was interrupted. Because, finally, Mr. Hughesbury decided to speak up again.

“That – This is _making a stuffed bird laugh_! Are you – who set you up to do this?! Is this supposed to be an ill attempt at humour?”

“Not at all, Mr. Hughesbury. I’d go as far as claiming the ill-attempt at humour might have been the caricature – though I would not call it an ill-attempt at all. And my apologies – but I am unable to disclose my source, for the detective that consulted me wishes to stay unidentified.”

One could almost have heard Mycroft’s eyes bulge out – and a sudden shiver ran down Tewkesbury’s back as he could feel the older gentleman’s gaze bore into his side.

He chose to ignore it for now. Though he was fairly certain Mycroft would be to stubborn to let this go.

“So we are to believe this _anonymous_ source that I would – I would _fake a conspiracy_ simply to file for divorce? That I’d – that I’d do such a horrendous thing? To my own family?”

Mr. Hughesbury was openly laughing now – though perhaps a tad too nervously to be believable.

“So we are to believe you took note of a small piece of paper pressed between painting and frame – a detail none of us managed to find – within a minute or two of looking at previously mentioned painting?”

Murmurs broke out. Some people nodded along and he thought he had heard a hiccup.

He wished he could make this any less painful for Mrs. Hughesbury.

“I have a keen eyes”, Mr. Hughesbury responded, smiling amusedly now, going as far as glancing at his friends for support.

But it didn’t matter. By now someone had grabbed the piece of paper that had laid in front of Tewkesbury, eyes hastily going over its contents, before passing it along.

It didn’t matter at all. He may not have Enola’s deductional skills, but he was by now means an idiot.

So here was the Hook.

“Perhaps, if you truly have such a keen eyes – you might be willing to help us compare the writings in that letter to your own? Or - “

And at this, Tewkesbury’s eyes narrowed, carefully measuring Mr. Hughesbury’s reaction to his next words.

Line.

“ - perhaps your butler’s?”

And...

Mr: Hughesbury’s face lost all resemblance of amusement at once and he visibly swallowed, looking anywhere else but him.

“Don’t you believe, Viscount Tewkesbury, that these questions might be more appropriate for an inspector to ask?”

Sinker.

Mr. Hughesbury had admitted defeat. If he were to truly bring Scotland Yard into this, they were sure to find the truth. Perhaps they might even consult Sherlock on the matter.

“Very well”, Tewkesbury said:”But I will be delivering these papers in person – and I want each and everyone of you as witness to what they – and most importantly the writings – look like.”

.o.O.o.

The banquet was cancelled. Not officially, of course, and it might have gone on for much longer than it had – but everyone was leaving and a heavy silence had descended upon the once lively salon.

His mother had stayed behind in the room to comfort Mrs. Hughesbury, who had asked everyone to leave, meekly and quietly and close to bursting into tears, just after her husband had left on his own accord.

Tewkesbury himself had left, too, of course, and was now patiently waiting in the hallway – supposedly on his mother.

In truth he was hoping to catch another glimpse of Enola, but she had yet to show – and he was left in silence – until his mother left the salon, that was, holding a shaking Mrs. Hughesbury close.

“I’ll accompany her to her room – might you wait on me? It could take some time.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

And she left without another word. Tewkesbury was tempted to lean against the wall, now that no one was there any more to admonish him, but it was as if he could feel a foul presence lingering about – and a foul presence was lingering indeed, as not to soon after his mother, none other than Mycroft Holmes left the room.

And Mycroft made no secret out of his want to talk to him.

In fact, he walked right up to him, exchanging a short greeting – and then dropping all pretence.

„That detective you mentioned...“, he asks, his hands folded behind his back. Tewkesbury smiled nervously, his eyes fluttering towards the corridor, only hosting shadows.

Tewkesbury wondered whether she was still here at all. He’d like to talk to her some more, of course – yet, at the same time...Mycroft, for all his ridiculousness, could be rather... _intimidating_ at times.

„Yes, Mr. Holmes? What about him?“

„That detective does not happen to share her last name with the likes of me, does she?“

There was a silent challenge hidden in Mycroft‘s words and Tewkesbury tried his best to sound believable as he went to answer.

„My sincerest apologies, Mr Holmes, however I am afraid it was specifically requested of me to not disclose my source’s name.”

“Is that so.”

Mycroft shifted, the only giveaway to any anxiety he might possibly be feeling. In fact, Mr. Holmes did not seem to be bothered at all, in fact, his eyes stared into Tewkesbury in a most uncomfortable manner.

In a different life, he might have made a splendid interrogator.

„Pray tell, did she plan this?“

But Tewkesbury would not waver.

„Again, I am afraid I am prevented from answering this question.“

„Of course she did not. She’s a woman – I doubt she planned anything at all – regardless – she isn’t my responsibility any more.”

She wasn’t? Tewkesbury frowned. But hadn’t…

“I wish you a good night, Viscount Tewkesbury.”

“So do I, Mr. Holmes. A pleasant night indeed.”

And then Mr. Holmes left and Tewkesbury wondered whether Enola would show at all. Maybe she’d wait for him in Covent Garden tomorrow? Maybe she had simply misread the letter, maybe...

“Is he gone, finally?”, a voice interrupted his inner thoughts, seemingly coming from the shadows:”Why, I was afraid he might never leave!”

.o.O.o.

It had been risky, waiting for Tewkesbury in the hallway, what with Mycroft stalking this house, but I had wanted to speak to him again – I’d rather not leave without having said my good-byes – and anyway – there were enough shadows to hide in.

And then Mycroft did show up and kept me from talking to him.

An unwanted thorn indeed.

I try to eavesdrop on his conversation with Tewkesbury, yet I can’t hear anything. They whisper to quietly and I have to stay too far away to be able to overhear anything. It is a pity, but if Mycroft had said anything of importance, I am sure Tewkesbury will tell me later – and not long after I have finished that thought Mycroft bids his goodbye and _finally_ leaves.

I am tempted to rejoice – but I don’t. Instead I creep closer, until I hear the door downstairs open and close – and then I allow myself to step out of the shadows.

“Is he gone, finally? Why, I was afraid he might never leave!”

I feel my cheeks heat up at the smile Tewkesbury sends my way – one could almost think he has a _gigglemug_ – and I am thankful for the shadows surrounding me once more.

“Enola!”, he cries out once again and then steps closer, pulling me into a hug and letting go soon after.

“You’re still here! I was afraid you might have left already?”

I frown. Left already?

“Without having said my good-byes? Do you rally think of me that badly?”

I smirk and he reciprocates the gesture – it almost stuns me and only his words keep me from falling into a stupor.

“Why, of course not! I merely believe you to be careful.”

“Well, being careful has never gotten me anywhere, has it?”, I tease and he laughs and then we fall into silence.

But against all odds, it doesn’t last long.

“How did it go?”, I ask excitedly and Tewkesbury laughs against.

It is quite the pleasant sound – I am tempted to say like church bells or a songbird I spring – and, of course, I only take note due to my necessary, observation exercises.

“It went well, I suppose – I do feel sorry for Mrs. Hughesbury though – I do wish we’d have been able to do more for her...But! Mr. Hughesbury will get Scotland Yard involved and I am most certain it was his butler who wrote these despicable letter...”

I smile. I wish I had been there, of course, wish it had been me to lay out all the evidence – but having Tewkesbury help might have been less taxing on Mrs. Hughesbury.

And the results are undeniable – though, again, I wish it were me who could compare the writings and drive the final nail into the coffin.

“Regardless.”

I perk up when Tewkesbury suddenly begins to speak once more. He grabs hold of my hands, then realizes what he is doing and lets go of them immediately after, blushing furiously.

Or I believe he is. I can’t see much, other than that his head is suspiciously tilted away from me.

“I wanted to ask whether you'd join me for a walk tomorrow?”

I frown – had I misread his letter?

“Didn’t you say you’d depart on the 7th?”

“I won’t – I was planning to leave early tomorrow – but my train’s leaving at 12 o’clock, we can meet before! I’d love to hear more about this case – I am sure you’ve omitted quite a bit earlier – and Charing Cross is but a five minute walk from there – perhaps you might want to join me for a walk?”

Of course. I still have that bad consciousness from earlier for not having shown earlier and I look forward to talk to him under more favourable circumstances – especially seeing how Anne never came around to tell me about what happened in that room – though I suppose she might have been needed else where.

Yet, I do not come around to answer, as another voice speaks up, behind me, one that I do not know, but Tewkesbury most certainly does, seeing how his eyes light up in recognition.

“Miss Holmes?”

I twirl around, expecting to be greeted by Anne, or perhaps even Mrs. Hughesbury, strange as it would be, but I instead find myself face to face with none other than Lady Tewkesbury.

Of course. If Tewkesbury is here it shouldn’t be surprising his mother has accompanied him.

For a moment, she glances at her son in understanding, but then her eyes already rest upon me once more and she smiles – gratefully.

“I must say, I wasn’t surprised to hear that you were the genius detective to have uncovered this ploy – going off of nothing but a hunch”, she smiles and I preen at the compliment.

“I am grateful for it – I know Mrs. Hughesbury from when we were younger and as distant as our relationship may have grown over the past few years, she is a dear friend of mine still.”

She trails off and I glance at Tewkesbury who seems to be just as surprised by this piece of information as I am.

“I was also asked to express Mrs. Hughesbury’s gratefulness to you and to extent her excuses for not speaking to you personally. She has laid down to rest for now – this evening has not been easy on her.”, Lady Tewkesbury added, a soft smile playing around her lips:”She is thankful for your determination to solve the case – against all odds. And she’d like to invite you over for tea sometimes again – whenever it is that you may find time.”

“Oh – of course. I’ll join her tomorrow then, I might just tell Anne...”

“Tomorrow?”, Tewkesbury asks and I grin.

“After our walk, of course.”

“Walk?”

I look aside, hearing Lady Tewkesbury chime in all of sudden – truth be told, I had forgotten her presence for a short second.

“Before the train leaves. Would it, perhaps, be possible to leave from a different station?”

He smiles sheepishly and Lady Tewkesbury purses her lips, but then nods.

“That might be arranged – but we must leave now. It is getting late and if we are to leave differently, we must arrange our matters – in a hurry, too. Would you be a dear an accompany me home?”

Really, the tone she uses is one that doesn't allow any objection

“Of course, mother. Enola – we’ll see each other tomorrow? At the flower shop? Eight o’clock?”

I nod. He smiles. I smile.

Lady Tewkesbury clears her throat.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dollar princess: Apparently, in the late 19th century several rich self-made entrepreneurs from North America married their daughters into the British nobility, in an attempt to be accepted as equal by “old money”. While this specifically refers to matches between British and North American, I thought it a fitting description nonetheless.
> 
> Bricky: Brave
> 
> Bang up to the elephant: perfect
> 
> Daddle: Hands
> 
> Make a stuffed bird laugh: Absolutely preposterous
> 
> Gigglemug: A face that always smiles
> 
> Me (while writing this chapter): Just write “Would you help us, Viscount Tewkesbury; marquess of Basilwether?  
> Also Me: But what about the spicy flirting? Eh? Eh?
> 
> So. This chapter concludes the first case! Next chapter will be regularly scheduled and be a sort of „in-between“ with Enola and Tewkesbury working together on the main case – but after that, I will take a one week break too get my plot into order again – additionally, I will decide on the next case. The second one will also be rather tame – no murder of theft, probably – and I will have to figure out some nice plot to get the story moving.
> 
> Anyhow. I hope you enjoyed this first case – it is kind of a template of what most other cases will look like. I’d love to hear your thoughts and see you in two weeks!
> 
> (Though I may come back to this chapter alter on – I am not entirely sure how to pin down Tewkesbury’s character yet, though I like the idea of him being good a public speaking and networking etc, in opposition to Enola)


	10. The unrobbed woman; Newspaper Clippings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s for you, Dellanir!
> 
> (Mind the dates! This chapter is not in chronological order to the ones following!)

The Case of the Curious Letters

-

_Case I: The unrobbed woman  
Newspaper Clippings_

.o.O.o.

Pall Mall Gazette, 10th of September – third page

“ _ **Husband frames wife to file for divorce**_

_Last Saturday, the 7 th of September, during a banquet hosted by the Hughesbury family at the family’s estate, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, member of the House of Lords, accused Mr. Hughesbury, a well-off factory owner native to London, of conspiracy against his wife. The Viscount supported these claims by findings put forward by an undisclosed source. Scotland Yard has, according to Inspector Lestrade, started up their own investigation on the matter._

_During the banquet, Mr. Hughesbury suggested to discuss several pieces of contemporary artwork, one of them being a painting bought by Mrs. Hughesbury, showcasing a scene set in a factory. While discussing the painting, Mr. Hughesbury insisted on having spotted an irregularity which caused him to take the painting from its frame, revealing a set of papers in return._

_The papers showed a caricature of Mr. Hughesbury and a letter detailing the alleged plot by Mr. Hughesbury. The later was confirmed by Viscount Tewkesbury, who produced a set of three, coded letters that were, allegedly, originally found behind the painting. According to those letters, which have been handed over to Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hughesbury was involved in the planning of an attack on one of Mr. Hughesbury’s factories, on the 23 th of September. According to Viscount Tewkesbury Mrs. Hughesbury was framed by her husband in an attempt to divorce her. Reasons for the wanted divorce have yet to be brought forward._

_The evidence so far is not decisive and the investigation is still ongoing._

_The Viscount has yet to reveal the identity of the source cited, however we succeeded to contact a witness within the house itself – who wishes to remain unidentified:”Word is some detective made the rounds some weeks before – questioning the people and so on. Didn’t see him myself, but I heard the name “Holmes” been thrown around a few days after.”_

_So far, Baker Street has denied any connection to the case and we are left to wonder about the identity of this detective._

-

Pall Mall Gazette, 10th of September – fourth page

“ _ **A comment on self-justice**_

_When is one allowed to exact justice on one’s wrongdoers, without letting the states guiding hand take lead? Such is an age-old question posed to society, as revenge and justice are closely related, interchangeable almost – and yet there is a fine line to walk. Undoubtedly, one cannot blame a man if they were to take action when society does not – but what were to happen if a crime committed might be punished too lightly – in the eyes of the wounded, that is?_

_Last Sunday London society has been confronted by a rather peculiar crime – the one described on page four. A husband tried to frame his wife of conspiracy, to constrain a divorce. The ploy was uncovered, the woman cleared from all suspicion, but the scandal has yet to wane. And it is unsure what sentence the husband may receive._

_It may not be a surprise at all then, that the aggrieved’s family took it upon themselves to carry out justice – and so, yesterday, on the 9 th of September, John Margold, Mrs. Hughesbury’s brother punched Mr. Hughesbury._

_It is unknown whether any lasting damage was caused. Mr. Hughsbury claims it was a deliberate attack on him while Mr. Margold claims he had previously been provoked by Mr. Hughesbury during a “civil and gentlemanly discussion of the scandal”._

_It is unsure whether Mr. Hughesbury will press charges or not._

_It is a difficult situation, indeed. If the accusation against Mr. Hughesbury are confirmed to be true he has greatly wronged his wife and by extension her family. He has tried to ruin their reputation and has undoubtedly brought great shock upon the family._

_However, even if the allegations are confirmed, it is to point out that Mr. Hughesbury will be punished by a competent tribunal and it s of this writer’s opinion that all power of judgement lay within the state. If Mr. Hughesbury were to be innocent – be it that his wife indeed plotted against him or simply by not having taken any part in the alleged framing – no doubt has he injured even worse by this attack than he has by the scandal brought upon his name alone._

_Therefore, as satisfactory as I, too, perceive this action taken by Mr. Margold, I must frown upon it nonetheless. Self-justice is a danger to all of society, lest it fall back into the habit of which-burning._

-

Magazine of Modern Womanhood, 9th of September – front page

“ _ **One saved, another four forgotten**_

_Last Sunday yet again an attack was made upon womanhood – a husband tried to frame his wife of conspiracy against him and the plot was discovered and made known on the evening it was supposed to be carried out._

_The man in question for planning such a heinous crime was none other than Mr. Hughesbury, husband to the admirable Mrs. Hughesbury, who has stood out these past few months due to her support of local craftsmanship and woman’s rights. According to several witnesses, last Sunday during a banquet hosted by the Hughesbury family, a plot by Mr. Hughesbury was unmasked in which he tried to frame his wife for conspiring against him._

_Luckily, the ploy was uncovered just on time, by liberal leaning Lord Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether, supported by evidence provided by a detective going by the name “Holmes” - and who, according to sources from the family’s estate, was a woman herself._

_As per Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard has started their own investigation, to verify the accusations brought forward by Viscount Tewkesbury._

_This is good news, indeed. Had the plot not been discovered, Mrs. Hughesbury would have been sentenced for a crime she has never committed and her reputation would have been damaged irreparably – but still, we should not celebrate just yet! For Mrs. Hughesbury is not the only woman being wrong in today’s day and age!_

_Take one Ms. Smith: A year ago she was accused of being a_ smasher. _Her name was cleared after an investigation of the accusation, made by malcontent customers, yet the damage to her reputation – and to her shop’s – was done. The possessions that were broken during her home’s search have yet to be replaced, too._

_And lets not forget the unnamed girl that visited us late at night three months ago, telling us of an abusive employer, who has no sense of propriety or the virtue of the maids in his service. She spotted countless bruises, most notable around her wrists and a lash on her cheek, but she refused to speak out, out of fear of being blacklisted._

_Another story of mistreatment comes with Mrs. Walsh: She worked at the Royal Gun Factory and was greatly wounded, leaving her an invalid. Like so many other factory workers, she hasn’t received any compensation and was left begging for scraps._

_And do not forget Helen Bright Clark! Just last year she was harassed for days after giving a speech at the Liberal Convention at Leeds! And not a single one of the harassers were punished._

_We are undoubtedly delighted this nefarious plot has been discovered on time – however, one must not forget about the wrongs that still need to be rightened!_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smasher: Someone who passes false money
> 
> Anyway. To write this, I read up on the Pall Mall Gazette (I couldn't find anything for the “Magazine of Modern Womanhood”, sadly) and the editor in 1884, W.T. Stead, was an absolute mad lad. He was on of the first investigative journalists, helped to pass a law in Great Britain raising the age of consent from 13 to 16, supported Esperanto, a United Europe and ultimately died on the Titanic in the year he might have been awarded with the Nobel Peace Price.
> 
> Also, apparently, he was a huge spiritualist. 
> 
> Regardless. What I really wanted to say is that the “Pall Mall Gazette” started as a conservative paper, was then turned into a liberal journal in 1880 and was then turned back into a conservative newspaper in 1892. 
> 
> But, now before this authors note becomes longer than the actual chapter: I hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment if you did and see you next week for our regularly scheduled Sunday update!


	11. Musings, 8th - 12th September 1884

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty sure that Enola doesn’t have her own diary in the movie – or at least it is never shown – but it didn’t make sense for this chapter to still be titled “file” and her writing down some of her inner thoughtsmade sense to me – so here we go, the last chapter that is part of the very first case ^^ I hope you’ll enjoy ^^

The Case of the Curious Letters

-

_Musings  
_ _8 th of September 1884_

* * *

“Historical perspective is the only way to begin a day”, my mother used to tell me. It was the very reason why she insisted for my first subject to always be history. We’d go to the library and she’d pull out one book or another and then we’d go over it and she’d explain to me anything I had not understood on my own – casting society into a different light each time we did so, comparing the different ways of life and the many changes we England has lived through.

It was quite interesting. To this day I will never forget how often she told me “times are changing and clinging to tradition for the sake of it is the root of all evil”.

I couldn't agree more.

Similarly, my mother used to tell me:”Every lady of refinement should be able to condense her innermost thoughts into a few, short lines. Be precise, but do not overcomplicate. Do not leave out a single detail, but do not write too lengthy either – one should be able to give a well-thought-out report on one’s thoughts at any given time – be it to report to oneself or to a friend.”

Now, for most of my life I have headed my mother’s advice, but I must confess, this once – I may have failed.

I have never thought much of my daily life and while I have always liked making plans, I have rarely written down anything. It seemed such an unnecessary waste of time – until I had to compile these files that was and now that I have, I must agree with my mother once more.

Sorting once thoughts is of great value.

And so, I will, albeit be it short.

I have learned a great deal during this case, even a lesson taught by none other than the great Sherlock Holmes himself – though perhaps he might have given it unwillingly – and now, after a month or so – I might have to look into my writings some more – I am finally able to close the file on this second, major case.

Long gone are the days on which I was sent to look for missing lunch or other squabbles.

I have finished my first case (well, second, if one considers “the Missing Marquess”, but Tewkesbury really is adamant about not letting that one count):

I do wonder whether mother would be proud, though.

.o.O.o.

I arrive perfectly on time at the flower shop we had agreed to meet at, yet Tewkesbury is already waiting for me.

“Enola!”, he exclaims once he spots me and his smile brightens considerably. He pays the flower boy – too much, as it seems from where I am standing – taking a hold of the Evergreens he seems to just have bought and then hurries to meet me.

“You’re here!”, he says once he’s in close distance to me, extending his hand to and holding out the flowers for me to take:”They’re yours – a gift. I spotted them and they quite reminded me of you.”

His eyes shine with expectancy and I take the delicate flowers from his fingers, regarding them.

“Of course I’m here”, I say as I do so:”Why wouldn’t I?”

The flowers are beautiful, though I fail to see how their simple elegance and pale lavender colour could ever possibly resemble me.

“I was worried you might not show”; Tewkesbury responds and I raise my head, wanting to retort – but then I stop, blushing lightly.

Tewkesbury might have a point.

“Well, yes”, I stutter, looking aside and willing my blush to disappear.

It does not.

“But I did show, did I not?”

I decide to pretend my blush does not exist at all and to face him, willing my head to turn around once more, defiantly raising my chin – but Tewkesbury does not seem to be intent on teasing me. Quite the opposite, as I notice him smiling even more brightly, before he notices his own staring and quickly averts his eyes, stepping back.

“Well. Yes. You did. Obviously. Uh – shall we take our walk then?”

And Twekesbury extends his arm to me. I take it wordlessly and it prompts him to smile mischievously. I narrow my eyes at that. I am unsure what to make of his expression, but then I decide to let it rest for now.

Perhaps I shouldn’t, as we fall into companionable silence for a few moments which give Tewkesbury enough time to notice my slight limb.

“Are you quite alright, Enola? Are you exhausted? We can sit down if need be!”

I am mildly insulted he might think I need to sit down, but he seems to be genuinely worried – perhaps it is not meant as insult.

“I am quite alright”, I say, trying to brush it off, but Tewkeybury isn't shaken that easily.

“Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“May I take a look at your ankle then? To be sure?”

Tewkesbury is smiling all smugly at that, probably thinking he outmanoeuvred me – but I simply raise an eyebrow at his words.

“Here? You want to inspect my _ankle_ here?”, I ask:”In the middle of the street?”

And just as I anticipated, Tewkesbury starts blushing furiously.

“Perhaps not!”, he hurries to say, his voice sounding suspiciously high:”But you should see a doctor. Or at least tell me what happened so I can recommend some herbs to use.”

Well. My ankle does still hurt and perhaps I should start worrying about it.

More than I do, at the very least.

As I start recounting the tale from the very start – sparing no detail – we stop at a shop and Tewkesbury purchases a bundle of herbs – comfrey roots, he tells me.

As I continue my tale, he keeps nodding – until he doesn’t anymore.

In fact, he seems rather scandalized by it.

“Enola, you _broke_ into Scotland Yard?”, he exclaims loudly, earning quite a lot of sideglances from other passer-by.

I shrug.

“Well, yes, I did.”

“Enola, you _can’t just break into Scotland Yard_!”

My admission seems to only infuriate him more and he stops both of us, looking rather perplexed.

“It’s – they could have sent you to prison if they had caught you! And – And there’s a reason why! You’re not _allowed_ to break into Scotland Yard!”

“I know that! But – if I weren’t a woman – and searched for by my very own brothers – I would have been able to receive those files. Don’t you think, if you were to walk into Scotland Yard today and ask for information on someone, you’d receive it without any trouble at all?”

“I suppose I would. But, perhaps, instead of you having that same right as I have, I shouldn’t be allowed to ask for such information in the first place.”

I must admit, I – well I did not anticipate this turn of events. Tewkesbury very much may have a point, but-

I needed those files. Scotland Yard would have never properly investigated Mrs. Hughesbury’s case and I would not have been able to solve it without those files.

It was the right things to do, however I doubt Tewkesbury will be of the same opinion.

“Regardless”, I say after we’ve spent some time in silence:”That is hardly important.”

“Oh, I disagree”, he responds, but I choose to ignore that, too, for the time being.

“I have found letters, you see.”

“Letters?”

“Coded letters, most likely written by my mother.”

This, at the very least, seems to make Tewkesbury perk up a little bit again.

“You did? That's great news! What do they say?”, he asks, turning to look at me once more and I am rather pleased to have chased away the gloomy atmosphere – that is most likely the reason why I find myself giving away information so freely.

“Why, that is the problem. You see, I have managed to find two different coded messages and...”

“No wait!”, Tewkesbury interrupts and I startle, my eyes resting on him.

“Do you live far from here?”, he asks and I tilt my head in confusion.

“I suppose. Perhaps half an hour from here?”

“Splendid! Then, perhaps, we might take our time and visit your place? I’ d love to see this code myself – and we can take care of that swollen ankle of yours.”

He seems rather pleased by his suggestion, preening almost and my eyes fall upon the small bundle of herbs.

I frown.

“You shouldn’t have...”

“But I wanted to – do not worry, I have wanted to try this for quite some time – now, lead the way, please, I’d quite like to take a look at those codes you’ve talked about!”

He is still preening. I start smile teasingly.

“You believe you’d be able to decode that letter at all?”

Tewkesbury positively glows at the challenge I posed.

“I am most certain that I can!”

.O.

I do not wish to insult Tewkesbury – not at all – but for all his strengths – of which there are many, undoubtedly – solving codes isn’t one of them.

He has been brooding over them for quite some time now as I heat the water, the way he has instructed me to.

“Comfrey roots are quite a versatile herb – but we must cook them first”, he told me once we got settled – and then he complimented me on finding a better lodging.

I knew by the way he grinned that he was taking a jab at my – rather poor – first choice of room.

“You were willing to stay there”, I grumbled, but all Tewkesbury did was grin wider.

“I am rather relieved there was no need for that – it was quite a scruffy place, don't you agree?”

And then he dived nose-deep into the note I copied as I searched around for a kettle.

It has been a good five minutes since then and I am convinced he has found the very first code already – though he seems to struggle with the second one.

It takes Tewkesbury another five minutes to admit defeat.

“I have found the first message”, he starts of and I chuckle, earning me an eye roll and displeased grunt.

“Well, why don’t you tell me all about your theory while I prepare the herbs?”I am sure his suggestion is merely a ploy to distract me from any potential teasing, but I don’t mind. I think it fairly sweet of him to worry so much about a simple injury and, in all fairness, I would not know how to treat the injury at all.

So I tell him, laying out the two different ways the letters can be read, their messages and what leads me to believe there might be a third code that I am missing, all the while Tewkesbury is listening closely.

And then he asks where I got the letter anyway and my answer seems to displease him once again.

“You – You broke her trust!”, he exclaims once I recount how I found the secret drawer and all that and, quite possibly, he looks even more scandalized than when I told him about Scotland Yard.

“But it was necessary!”, I retort, irritated as well. Those are my mother’s letters – I very much have a right to find her!

“Enola, you can’t just bend the rules however you want!”

“You helped me escape from Mrs. Harrison’s finishing school – did you not bend the rules back then?”, I respond, but all it does is make Tewkesbury frown.

“You can hardly compare both situations. I helped you to flee a place encroaching on your personal freedoms – while you very much encroached on Mrs. Hughesbury’s freedom to keep things private, if she wishes to do so. Perhaps you should have simply asked her for more information on your mother, I am sure she would have handed over the letters voluntarily.”

Tewkesbury is frowning still and I avert my eyes – he does have a point, does he not? Mother, too, believed privacy was the highest virtue and then one most frequently violated.

I may have just violated it again – but it was for a good cause!

I think.

I am sure.

I _am_ trying to find my mother, after all.

“Why do you wish to find your mother at all?”, Tewkesbury eventually asks and I am thankful that he broke the silence that blanketed us – well, like silence tends to do.

“Did you not mention she had visited you? After you’ve settled in London for good?”, he asks once I am done explaining, carefully turning my ankle one way and then another.

“She did. We talked a fair bit but – I haven’t seen her since and it has been months and...”

I am reminded of the explosives I found once again and try to shake the memory from my thoughts.

“I simply wish for her not to leave me all on my own”, I conclude my statement, staring at my hands.

”But I suppose I should have known from the day I was born”, I add wistfully.

I may sound more bitter than I should, but, as I stare at the note, I cannot bring myself to care.

She should be here. I remember all the times she was the one wrapping my injuries, kissing them better.

I remember her worried eyes so well and her warm voice, promising me to never leave.

I softly shake my head to get rid of that thought, too. She must have had her reasons for leaving – well, she has, she told me that herself – and – I am sure I’ll-

Perhaps I do not know myself why I am looking for her at all.

But I will find her.

“What do you mean by that? How would you have known your mother would leave as a newborn?”

Tewkesbury kneels down in front of me know, carefully taking hold of my ankle and turning it one way and another.

“My first name – it means – she insisted that I’d be called that way. It spells “Alone” - backwards, that is.”

Tewkesbury looks up at me, his lips pressed together in contemplation.

“So it does”, he admits, after a few seconds:”I never noticed. What a thoughtful name.”

I smile sadly, my shoulder sacking and I put the note away, earning an annoyed “Hey!” from Tewkesbury, as I move my feet to do so.

“I suppose. Though, sometimes, I wish it’d spell a happier message. Though “Tnednepedni” rolls off of the tongue much more difficult, don't you agree?”

I smile and so does Tewkesbury, leaning backwards, seemingly satisfied with the draping.

“Is that what she meant by calling you “Enola”? Oh, and could you move your foot around a bit? I’d like to see whether it will stick...”

I do as I am told.

“I suppose.”

“It is a nice thing to do. You may think the name “unflattering” but it is quite a lot more thoughtful than my own.”

Tewkesbury’s words make me frown. Not because I disagree, but rather because...

“You never told me.”

“Huh?”

He looks up, away from my ankle.

“You never told me you first name, now that I think of it.”

Now, perhaps it is simply the way the light filters through the window, but if I am not entirely mistaken, it almost seems as Tewkesbury is blushing. Which seems to be a confusing reaction to my question, is it not? Mayhaps it is some aspect of society that I have yet to grasp – although I doubt I will ever feel the need to understand it in the first place – though it eludes me what it could possibly be.

“Uh – William! My first name's William!”

He is stuttering and turns even more red. I squint inquisitively, but a church bell’s chiming keeps me from asking any further questions.

“It is getting late already, is it not?”, Tewkesbury hurries to say:”Perhaps it is for the better if we leave for Caring Cross already? As to not irritate your injury any more than we must? Perhaps you should stay at home altogether and-”

“I have managed just fine those past few days, with the swelling”, I interrupt him, feeling slightly irritated – but all Tewkesbury – or William, I guess – this will take some time to get used to – does is laugh.

“I have no doubts, Enola – none at all. Yet, it’d probably be healthier if you were to slow down a bit sometimes.”

.O.

Twekesbury – William – this really _is_ difficult – ends up winning or small argument and we leave early, though not as early as he wanted to at first.

Anyway, we are early and, mayhaps, this is for the better, as this way we will easily be able to spot his mother within the crowd.

We talk a bit and eventually, he does spot his mother, his features lightning up as he gets up and he runs to meet her.

“Mother!”, he exclaims and she turns her head – her expression mirroring his.

“Ah, there you are, darling – I was afraid you might be late and – Miss Holmes, you’re here, too! It is great to see you again, under more favourable circumstances that is.”

She smiles at me and I clumsily try to courtesy.

It may have been my imagination, but I am fairly certain I hear Tewkesbury snicker.

Then again, it most likely wasn’t my imagination at all.

“But, oh, well, I must confess I asked one of the conductors to wait for you at the other side of the station, in case you might bet lost – Ebenezer, could you be a dear and go fetch him?”

I can feel William freeze next to me and I slowly turn my head around, mouth slightly open in disbelieve.

“Perhaps Miss Holmes may accompany you, to make the search easier?”

He starts talking before I have time to question him about this rather unexpected revelation.

“Of course, mother. It will be my pleasure.”

Tewkesbury’s voice sounds mechanical as he answers and he glances at me – I am still looking at him in disbelieve.

Did he actually..?

Tewkesbury doesn't give me much time to think as he turns and leaves already and I am left to run after him – which I do, and, to be fair, I have hardly any trouble keeping up with him.

“Ebenezer?”, I whisper-hiss as I follow him towards where his mother has pointed him.

“Ebenezer?! You told me your name is William! Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess Basilwether, did you _lie_ to me?”

He is blushing now, very much so, and it brings me more joy than it probably should.

“My name is William! It’s my middle name! I didn’t lie!”, he responds, though his voice is too high for me to take his answer all too serious.

“You said it was your first name!”

“Well-”, he starts to retort, before dodging one of the many other passengers, who shoots both of us a rather dirty look.

“Well, yes I did – but – well, “Ebenezer” is not necessarily my favourite name.”

He dodges another passenger, this time pulling me aside, too, and then, finally, we are out in the open.

Tewkesbury lets out a sigh and I pull my sleeve from his hand.

“I suppose “Ebenezer” is quite the ridiculous name”, I chuckle, surveying the area for any searching train conductors.

“It sounds as if you were to steal a poor child’s candy.”

I spot the conductor and pull Tewkesbury – William? - Ebenezer? - Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of “I-don’t-know-wether-I-should-lie-or-not”? - I quite like the last one – along with me.

“Steal a...Enola! I would never!”, he splutters, until he catches up with me and rips his sleeve from my hand.

“It does fit you, though, don’t you think? Viscount Ebenezer Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether – it fits neatly together, does it not?”

“Are you calling my family’s name ridiculous?”

I suppose I do not need to dignify his question with an answer, do I?

“I’ll have you know that my family has held our estate to the highest honour for centuries!”

We reach the train conductor and the matter is resolved easily – and already, we are on our way back to the train, all the while Tewkesbury is talking.

“My name is _not_ ridiculous! At all! It is dignified and – and – it is not ridiculous! And anyway, you're called “Enola”! How’s my name any more ridiculous than that?”

“I recall you saying, just earlier, what a thoughtful name it was!”, I respond good-naturedly and Tewkesbury harrumphs.

“Thoughtful, perhaps, but strange nonetheless. And regardless, you shouldn't call me by my first name anyway, seeing how it I rather inappropriate.”

I am about to remind him that, maybe two hours ago at most, he was wrapping bandages around my very much naked ankle, but then I turn around to look at him and notice that he is smiling good-naturedly.

I roll my eyes, snatching his wrist once more, in spite on all the societal rules I might be breaking at the moment.

“Perhaps. But we should hurry – we don’t want to keep your mother waiting, do we?”

We did not keep Lady Tewkesbury waiting at all. In fact, upon our return she is animatedly chatting with another woman and she doesn’t notice both of us for quite some time. But then she does and waves goodbye to the other woman, heading over to us.

“There you are, darling, Miss Holmes – I assume you have found the conductor?”

“Yes, mother”, Ebenezer says – I snicker, Tewkesbury lets out a sigh.

“Splendid! Then shall we board? The train will be leaving any second.”

“Yes, mother”, Ebenezer – I quite like this, I must admit – says once more and his response seems to be satisfying as his mother turns and walks towards the train.

Tewkesbury follows her and so do I and before I know we’re already at the track.

“I suppose this is a good-bye for now?”, Tewkesbury says, as he holds on to the handrails and leans forward slightly. He is smiling somewhat melancholicly and I am reminded of our last goodbye, at the gates of parliament and immediately will the memory to die down again, as a blush threatens to overtake my cheeks.

“I suppose so”, I respond, not daring to meet his eyes, hoping he hasn’t noticed.

Seeing how I refuse to look at him, I have no way of finding out.

“Will I see you again?”

It may have sounded overly dramatic to any other person, but I know from the grin he’s wearing that he is teasing and I feel the corners of my lips rise in kin.

“Considering you know where I live now, I doubt there’s much stopping you, is there?”

A pipe goes off, shrill and loud. A conductor calls for all passengers to enter and Tewkesbury’s head turn fully red.

I blink perplexed. May I have said something unseemly again? If so, Tewkesbury makes no move to correct me, leaving me to ponder my words? Was it perhaps the invitation to visit me? Yet I do recall us having discussed to stay in the same room together, back, when Inspector Lestrade had caught up to us, so it must have been something else.

Tewkesbury is still staring at me and we have gathered quite some attention by now – which is rather unfortunate, do you not agree?

“Please don’t tell my brothers?”, I ask in an attempt to shake him from his stupor and it seems to be working rather splendidly, as his eyes widen before turning a normal size again and he leans back, smiling widely.

“Not even the famed Sherlock Holmes will be able to pry that secret from my hands – I’ll promise you that much.”

.o.O.o.

_12 th of September_

I do not know what brought me to Edith's doorsteps this evening. The dice do not require me to stop by any sooner than Saturday and I do not expect any letters either – and yet. Almost, as if possessed I walk over, my ankle draped in the comfrey-soaked fomentations.

It does help. Perhaps I should get myself a book on flowers after all.

The bell atop the door jingles as I enter the tea rooms, barely audible over the chattering of the various patrons.

I do not pay them any mind, as I head straight to the back, where I know Edith will be. Usually she'd spend her day upstairs, training others, but I can’t hear anyone above us.

Well, it is getting rather late. I shan’t be surprised if today’s classes are concluded already.

I enter the backrooms and Edith turns around, a “Guest are not permitted back here” on her lips, undoubtedly – but then she notices it’s me.

“Enola!”, she says, cheerfully and puts away the pot she had just been cleaning.

“What a surprise! What brings you here?”, she asks, before motioning for me to sit down.

“Would you like something to drink?”

I nod and Edith hands me a cup I gratefully accept

“I have read about that case of yours – you really are changing the world. First you found that marquess and now you’ve saved a woman’s life from ruin – I am sure Mrs. Hughesbury is immensely thankful for all you have done for her.”

She was. I talked to her four days ago – although briefly. She looked terrible and was packing her things, moving back to her parents.

She had barely been able to sleep at all and I didn’t dare to ask her any questions about my mother. Though she did say if she’d ever be able to repay me, she’d gladly do so, so perhaps I might be able to ask at a later date – I truly do hope so.

“Though I read in the papers that you...employed help of that boy you’ve been sending letters to?”, Edith continues and I snap out of my reminiscing as I catch the worried undertones in her voice.

I really wished she'd trust Tewkesbury more than she does. Perhaps I can convince him to meet her at some point?

“It was quite the spontaneous development, but yes, he was quite helpful.”

“Not that useless anymore?”, she quips in response and I chuckles. I did call him that, did I not?

But Edith doesn't chuckle. Instead, her expression turns grief and she slightly shakes her head.

“I wish for the best, of course I do, Enola – but do be careful around the likes of him. Men are deceitful creatures.”

She looks at me meaningfully and I know she means to warn me – but I do not respond. In fact, I am convinced my brother, Mycroft, might be inclined to say quite something similar.

Edith must have realized that I am unwilling to talk much more about Tewkesbury, as she sits down across from me, smiling warmly.

“Now tell me – surely you’ve come to tell me more than simply having solved a case, didn't you?”

Once again I am caught off-guard by Edith’s perceptiveness, but I really shouldn’t. She has not once given me a reason to doubt her ability, after all.

I blush slightly as I remember _why_ I am here.

It is simple, really.

“It’s – the case – it’s all over the papers!”, I exclaim, setting down my cup too quickly, making it clincker and clanck.

Edith chuckles and lightly shakes her head, regarding me fondly.   
  
“It is, is it not? Really, you should be proud of yourself – just look how far you’ve come from that first time you ever walked in here. But I am sure that's not why you are here, are you?"

She looks at me teasingly and I take a deep breath, feeling anticipaton rising inside of me.

“Yes I – I was wondering, now that the case has made the newspapers whether – did my mother send any word?”

I have skimmed the newspaper the past two days, but I turned up empty-handed. And I am convinced my mother will sent word to me.

She must.

She is my mother after all.

But Edith’s fond smile falls, replaced by annoyance almost and she lets out a sigh.

“Enola”, she says:”I told you one shouldn’t come to Lo-”

“To London for another, yes, I remember”, I interrupt her, irritation flaring up in me:”But she is my mother. And she – she left without saying as much as a word!”

I am looking at Edith know, pleadingly almost – to no avail. All she does is smile that fond smile and I wonder whether, perhaps, she may have talked to my mother just recently.

“I’m sure she’s proud of you, Enola”, she says, but her words most certainly do not stop the bitterness I feel rising.

“Well, perhaps she should have told me herself, should she not?”, I respond, my words sounding bitter and while I may resent myself for it, I cannot bring myself to declare it a mistake.

And how could I?

“ _Always mind the words you choose, Enola – for a single word out of place, a single intonation too high or too deep might ruin an entire conversation_ ”, my mother taught me after all.

“Thank you for the tea”, I say, after some time has passed in silence and Edith failed to either notice the silent challenge held in my expression or is unwilling to meet it.

“I shall see myself out, then.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought this was going to be a short chapter – which it wasn’t. In turn the chapter feels kind of “stitched” together which I will definitely edit at some later point, but for now I am quite happy with the result. At this point I’d like to thank orangejuice31 and Dellanir for suggesting “William” as Tewkesbury’s name – which he now is called.
> 
> Technically speaking.
> 
> Fun fact, I wanted to call him “Mortimer” first, but then I thought to myself “Doesn’t this dude from “A Christmas Carol” have a super weird name? And I was right!
> 
> I like “Ebenezer” even more than “Mortimer”.
> 
> Anyway, now that this chapter is finally written, I will remind everyone that I will take a short break from this story – instead of posting the next chapter in two weeks, I will do so in three, to give me some time to write down a more detailed plot for the next case as well as to edit the one for the overarching story. But other than that, everything will stay the same. I’d love to hear your guys’ thoughts on today’s chapter and see you in three weeks ^^

**Author's Note:**

> I see that you have successfully made it to the end! Please, bear with me just a little bit longer as down here I will say some words on the structure of this story.
> 
> This story will follow Enola while solving different cases, with an underlying conspiracy because I simply couldn’t resist putting an underlying conspiracy into it. Most cases will involve five chapters each (some may be a bit shorter, but I’ll try to resolve most in those five chapters) and will vary from their importance and tone - I want to keep this story fluffy and on course, but if I have an idea that touches upon some heavier themes, I will write that case too. I have an end goal in mind, but I have yet to fully decide on how to get there and I'll probably afford myself the freedom to stray from that path occasionally. The first case, however, is already outlined and so is the “main case” - I will try to update every two weeks, however, I don’t know whether university might throw a wrench into things. 
> 
> The title refers to the main plot, and, of course, there will be some shipping taking place here (a lot. There will be a lot of shipping). After all, the movie aged up Tewkesbury from 12 (his original age in the book series) to 16, so that lovestory is as canon as it can get.
> 
> Anyhow. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter and feedback is much appreciated =D  
> (and so is publically shaming me in the comments)


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